


The World is Lit by Lightning

by MireilleBlue



Category: Indiana Jones Series
Genre: 1950s, Aliens, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Gen, Iquitos, Moral Dilemmas, Peru, Post-Canon, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, Soviet Union, Torture, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2019-09-25 06:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17116520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MireilleBlue/pseuds/MireilleBlue
Summary: Irina Spalko survives her encounter with the space-between-spaces, only to find herself in American custody. Meanwhile, Indiana Jones is forced to assist the FBI with a unique investigation.





	1. Iquitos, May 1957

The truck bumped its way through the cobbled alleyways of inner Iquitos, jostling the prisoners who were restrained in the cargo hold. Irina Spalko leaned against the cool metal wall, keeping a neutral expression on her face. Behind her back, she twisted her hands fiercely in their restraints, trying to break the chain that held the manacles together. She had been working at it for the better part of twelve hours, ever since they left the ruins of Akator in the middle of the rainforest. Her wrists were chafed and covered with blood, and her fractured arm ached. When they’d found her at Akator, barely conscious and pinned under a pile of rubble, she’d had no feeling in that arm at all. Spalko, however, wouldn’t be distracted by a bit of temporary pain. She tugged her wrists apart again, glancing warily at the American soldier who sat across the hold, automatic rifle in his hands.

In the hold, too, were a few unlucky members of her squadron, those who had survived the debacle at Akator. She counted six soldiers in total, all in various states of disrepair. The most grievously injured lay unconscious on the floor, blood soaking a bandage across his forehead. They were all willing to sacrifice for the Soviet Union, but she still felt a cold prick of guilt when she thought of what was coming. No doubt they would all be tortured when they arrived at their destination, and Spalko hoped that the men would die quickly. She was the only one who held information of value, but she expected the Americans to use her men as leverage.

With this grim thought in her mind, Spalko felt the truck start to slow. They were in a populated area, and she could hear the faint strum of Peruvian folk music, the distant clamor of voices and traffic. A light rain hissed against the canvas roof. She guessed that they were in Iquitos. The vehicle took a sharp turn and stopped; the guard snapped to attention.

“The prisoners will remain still.” He repeated the phrase in crude Russian, probably for the benefit of her soldiers.

Spalko sneered. “My men do speak English.”

“Shut up.”

She struggled as the back of the truck flew open and a sack was placed over her head. Someone jerked her to her feet, and she was bundled out into the rain. She heard her soldiers disembarking behind her.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

 

Spalko found herself alone in a small cement room, shackled to a table. The soldiers had deposited her there after a short walk, yanking off the blindfold and slamming the door behind them. The floor was cold against her bare feet, and she still wore the dirty and torn fatigues from Akator. Her arm burned with a white pain.

Taking advantage of the solitude, she glanced around the room, noting the placement of security cameras, the typewriter in the corner. She estimated that it would take her ten steps to reach the door. Twenty to reach the end of the passageway. Her heartbeat was quick and erratic, and her throat felt dry. The Americans hadn’t given her anything to eat or drink. Pushing the useless panic aside, she forced herself to continue her inspection. A telephone on the wall. A locked cabinet behind her. The room was otherwise empty.

The last thing Spalko remembered was the spinning of the dais in the throne room. She had approached the Being and asked for knowledge, the only thing she had ever truly craved. She remembered the elation, the raw power of staring into the eyes of the Being, feeling her own abilities dim in comparison. It had been the culmination of years of careful research, cultivating her own gifts and searching for an explanation for the mysterious phenomena she’d witnessed.

But the power of the Beings was too nebulous, too unwieldy to develop into a useful weapon. Trying to harness it had nearly killed her. When – if – she made it back to Moscow, Spalko would advise the directorate to terminate the special project. They would be interested to hear of her findings, and even more interested in the Americans’ apparent foreknowledge of their plot.  

Spalko heard the distant tap of footsteps. She schooled her face into an expression of cool disdain. Fear made a lump in her throat, but she ignored it, trying not to imagine what they would do to her. She would never betray the Motherland. The Americans could break every bone in her body, but her allegiance would always belong to the Soviet Union.

With a rattle, the door swung open. A balding, olive-skinned man stepped carefully through the door, smoothing his suit with one hand. A thick manila folder was tucked under his arm. Before speaking, he sat across the desk and laid the folder between them, almost casually. He glanced at his watch.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Spalko.”

Spalko just stared at him. “What do you want with me?”

“What do you think?” His voice was soft, with a slight American twang, but there was something about him that put Spalko ill-at-ease. Leaning back in his chair, he considered her, steepling his fingers before him.

She let the silence drag on for a moment. Then: “The matter with Jones.”

“Yes, we’ll start there. But first—” He sprung up from his chair, going to the door. Another man stepped in, carrying a plate of food and a cup of water. “Would you like something to eat?”

Spalko narrowed her eyes warily. The second man sat the meal down on the desk, just out of her reach, and then disappeared through the door. Her throat was raw with thirst, and she waited impatiently for the interrogator to undo her shackles.

“You may have this meal, Dr. Spalko, on one condition.”

“Condition?”

“Yes. Tell us the name of your direct superior.”

Her hopes plunged, but she forced herself to remain passive. “You know I cannot disclose that, Agent…”

“…Agent Marino. And yes, you’ll need to give me the information first. Something for me, something for you.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” He sprung up, retrieving the plate. “I will return in an hour. I expect you will have revised your decision by then.”

* * *

 

Indiana Jones walked up the squat stucco building with a weary sigh. His boots slipped against the worn cobblestones, and he caught the familiar smell of wood smoke and cooking _Tacacho._ He didn’t particularly like Iquitos, crowded as it was with scoundrels and fortune-seekers hoping to profit from the rubber boom, but he did like the local cuisine _._ When Ross had called him to the city a few days before, he hadn’t argued, although he’d been bitterly disappointed by the change of plans. Marion Ravenwood and her son – _his_ son -- had gone ahead to Connecticut, and he was planning to join them as soon as possible.

Thinking of Marion lifted his gloom a little, and he stepped to the gate, tapping a button hidden among the swirls of wrought iron. The place looked more like a residential property than a bunker, and the lack of fortification surprised him. He tapped the button again; this time, a uniformed man emerged from the shadows, carrying an automatic rifle across his back.

“Dr. Jones?”

“I am,” he grumbled. “Where’s Ross?”

“Inside. Come with me.” The guard opened the gate, and they crossed the short walkway to the door. The man keyed a series of notes into a keypad embedded in the door, then unlocked it with a conventional key. Noticing Jones watching him, he smiled slightly. “We make do with what we have.”

“I see.”

The inside of the building looked more menacing. There were no windows, only a series of locked doors and a dark stairwell leading to a lower level. The guard shepherded him away from the stairwell and towards the nearest door, underneath which faint light spilled into the hallway. The guard tapped twice on the door.

“General Ross, sir. Your visitor has arrived.”

* * *

 

True to his word, Agent Marino returned an hour later, again offering her food in exchange for information. True to her word, Spalko refused.

“I don’t understand, Dr. Spalko. Are you not hungry?” He paced the floor in front of her, wearing a puzzled frown.

Spalko listened to the tap of his dress shoes on the concrete, trying to ignore the now-cold plate across the desk. The combination of hunger and harsh fluorescent lights was beginning to make her dizzy. Slumping back in her chair, she waited for him to tire of the silence.

It didn’t take more than a few minutes. “…Answer me, Spalko.”

“I have nothing to say.”

The agent stopped his endless circuit around the small room and approached her chair. “You know we can make you talk.”

She scoffed at this and raised her eyebrows haughtily.

“We can.” Marino flipped open the manila folder and paged through it. “We already know quite a bit about you. Your role in the Science and Technology Directorate, personal statistics, history of military service…”

“I have no doubt, agent. But you are not interested in those things.”

“Correct you are. We know of your high rank within the Soviet bureaucracy, and we suspect you are involved in the development of experimental weapons.”

She smiled thinly. “I expect you want to know what we are working on—”

“Yes.”

“—But that is not information I am willing to divulge.”

Marino slammed the folder shut and straightened up. Without a word, he crossed to the door and opened it.

“Good evening, sir.”

With a nod, Marino ushered the other man inside. He was squat and well-muscled, with hair cut short against his scalp. A cudgel hung menacingly at his side. Unholstering the weapon, he took a few steps towards her, biting his lip.

Spalko felt dread settle in her chest, damp and heavy. She had passed her counterinterrogation training with flying colors, but she wasn’t looking forward to testing her resolve. Her hands shook, and she fought to still them.

“…If you refuse to be reasonable, I will be forced to question you more aggressively. Tread lightly, Spalko.” There was nothing mild in his voice now, and she felt the electricity of his anger.

She wouldn’t be cowed. “You’ve put me in a difficult position, Agent Marino.”

“Allow me to make it simple. Cooperate, or you will be beaten.”

Before the agent had time to react, Spalko lunged forward, shoving over the table between them. Her hands and feet were restrained, which limited her range of motion. Stumbling backward, she managed to pull one hand free of the cuff, scraping off a good deal of skin in the process. Within a second, the guard had closed the gap between them. Swinging his club, he crushed the weapon into her fractured upper arm. Spalko went down, momentarily blinded by the pain.

The guard took the opportunity to subdue her, replacing the cuff.

Across the room, Marino got shakily to his feet, brushing off his suit coat. “You will…regret that foolish display.”

Spalko barely heard him. Curled up on the floor, she hissed through her teeth, pulling the injured arm close to her body.

“…Guard McCrea, has Jones arrived?”

“Yes, sir. He arrived at 1100 hours, sir.”

“Bring him to me.”

* * *

 

“Indy, I’m so glad you’re here! Come in.”

Ross waved him into the small room and gestured to a chair in the corner. The room was spartan and clean, with a polished oak desk and neat stacks of folders. The sole window was covered over with tar paper.

“I trust you had a comfortable journey?”

Jones nodded, settling into the seat. Pulling off his battered fedora hat, he laid it carefully over his knees. “It was fine, thanks.”

This was true. Ross’ agents had stopped him at the small airport in Lima, directing him to a plush sedan waiting outside. He had been irritated at the interruption to his plans, but at least the journey to Iquitos had been bearable. He leaned forward, stroking his chin.

“Why do you want me here, general?”

Ross sighed and settled his lanky frame into the tiny desk chair. “Spalko. We’ve apprehended her.”

“Really?” Indy’s surprise was genuine. The last he’d seen of her, she had been planted stubbornly in the middle of the throne room, babbling about sight and knowledge. Her survival had seemed unlikely. Suddenly, his tiresome trip to Iquitos became a bit more interesting.

“Yes. Our patrols found her beneath the rubble. She is in remarkably good shape, but we don’t think she’ll cooperate with our interrogation.”

Jones grimaced and shook his head. “No, I imagine she won’t.”

“We want you to assist with the interrogation.” Ross stared at him through smudged glasses, as if he expected Indy to refuse.

“If you say so, general. But…”

“Why you?”

Indy nodded silently, crossing his arms.

“Well, simply put, you are the only one of us who knows her personally. She has expressed admiration for your work. You have a rapport.”

Jones snorted at this, slapping his palms on the desk. Spalko had admired his reputation enough to kidnap him for the trip to Akator, luring him in by using his family as bait. He would hardly say they had a rapport. Still, he was eager to get back in the good graces of the Bureau. This whole affair had stained his reputation and nearly cost him his career at Marshall College. He supposed it would be wise to cooperate, if only to curry favor with Ross.

“Just tell me what I need to do.”


	2. No One Knows Where the Ladder Goes

                The cell was small and chilly, with a single lightbulb for illumination. In one corner were a sink and toilet, both thoroughly bolted down. A wool blanket, haphazardly folded, was sitting by the door. Through the barred window embedded into the door, Spalko watched the guard walk his beat, footsteps echoing through the hallway. He passed by her cell approximately every three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. She filed this information away as potentially useful, then leaned back against the wall, letting her eyes fall shut. Her broken arm throbbed, and her fingertips were raw and stinging where the nails had been removed. Her nose was broken, and she felt the trickle of drying blood down her chin.

                Suddenly, she noticed that the footsteps in the hall had gone silent. Craning her neck, she watched two figures make their way towards her cell. One was the guard, of course, but the other…

                “The prisoner will stand.” The voice of the guard was muffled by the door, and she heard the faint jingle of keys in the lock. Shakily, she got to her feet and squared her shoulders. Her mouth was set in a determined scowl.

                “Have you not troubled me enough?” She called out bitingly.

                The door swung open. The guard stepped in, followed by a troublingly familiar figure.

                “Hello, Colonel-Doctor.” Jones tipped his hat, and Spalko wasn’t sure if it was a gesture of respect or mockery. She flinched under his gaze.

                “Dr. Jones. Such a surprise to see that you have survived also.”

                He grinned, but there was no warmth behind it. Then his expression fell. “Hey, what happened to your fingers?”

                “Your countryman, Marino.” Spalko lifted her fingers so he could get a good look at her torn and bloodied nails. To her surprise, a look of genuine horror and pity crossed Jones’ face. Good – perhaps she could use this to her benefit.

                Jones waved to the guard, then pointed to the hallway. “A word, please?”

                Spalko watched as they disappeared through the doorway, and the heavy steel door slammed shut.

* * *

 

                Jones cradled his head in his palms, leaning in the shadows of the passageway. Beside him, the young guard was staring, hands in his pockets.

                “What’s the problem, sir? Should I go find General Ross?”

                “Please do.”

                The man scurried off, and Indy heard him clatter up the steps. Indy prided himself on being thick-skinned – two tours in World War II had taught him that much – but he was troubled by what he had seen in the cell. Spalko had looked terrible, gaunt and weak, with blood on her face and fingers ripped to shreds. He had little love for Spalko; she was cruel and arrogant, and her deranged pursuit of Akator’s treasures had put his family in danger. Still, Jones believed that what distinguished his countrymen from the Soviets was moral character. He’d been on the receiving end of torture a few times himself, and he felt a twinge of empathy for his former enemy.

                Perhaps a talk with Ross would clear things up. The general was a busy man, and it was simply not possible for him to closely supervise everything that went on in the prison. Nodding to himself, Jones started down the passageway, squinting in the dim light. He met Ross at the stairs.

                “Indy, is something the matter?” Ross looked slightly rumpled, and his suit coat was tucked over one arm. He flashed a tired smile.

                “Yes, general. Who has been conducting Spalko’s interrogation?”

                “Agent Robert Marino. He was transferred here from Cartagena – the field office recommended him highly.”

                “He tortured her.” Indy crossed his arms and stared at Ross, waiting for his reaction.

                “Yes, he told me. This matter must be resolved quickly, and she wasn’t responding to our questions.”

                “You’re kidding me...” Indy scowled in disgust and took a few steps back. Ross clapped a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off.

                “We have to be practical, Indy. You waste your pity on her.”

                “I won’t be part of this.”

                “Ah, but you will. Your trouble with the Bureau will only go away if you help us.”

                With a pang, Jones imagined Marion and Mutt waiting for him back in Connecticut. More than anything, he wanted to get back to them. If he didn’t play ball, the investigation would go on forever, and Indy would be stuck in some cramped cell for months, trying to convince the Bureau that he had no foreign allegiances. He might lose his tenure, and Marshall College would need to find a new archeology instructor. His life would be in tatters.

                Ross noticed his hesitation. “All you need to do is ask her questions. Marino will handle the more rigorous interrogations.”

                Indy sighed in defeat, already feeling disgusted with himself. Fixing Marion in his mind’s eye, he opened his mouth: “Fine. Damn you all.”

                Ross shrugged off his outburst and started back up the stairs. “Excellent.”

* * *

 

                “What do you want?” Spalko leaned back in her chair, pale eyes fixed on his face. She had wiped the blood from her chin, and her expression was cold and defiant.

                Indy matched her posture, propping his notebook on his knee. Taking a pencil from his pocket, he tapped it absently on the tabletop. The interrogation room was small and bare, and the walls offered no distraction from his task. The guard stood beside the door, stone-faced. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the woman.

                “Have you had anything to eat?” He hoped his offer would start them off on the right foot. Ross had shared the questions with him, but he thought better of beginning the interrogation immediately.

                Spalko shrugged noncommittally, letting her gaze wander. Indy stood up and waved to the guard.

                “Captain Blaine, will you fetch food for the prisoner?”

                The young man snapped to attention, eyes nervous. “Sir, General Ross said--”

                “--This is my interrogation,” Jones said firmly. “Don’t worry about Ross.”

                With a hesitant nod, the guard disappeared. Jones returned to his seat. Spalko still seemed uncooperative and surly, as if the prospect of food meant nothing to her. Despite the cell and handcuffs, she acted as if she were still in command.

                “Now – Ross told me that you refused to cooperate.”

                “I have nothing to say to the Americans.”

                “We’ll start with something simple, then. How did you survive the collapse of the temple?” He supposed it made a good enough opening to the interrogation, but Indy was genuinely curious about the answer. He and Marion had watched the temple collapse into the lake, sending up clouds of dust and rock fragments. Between drowning and being crushed to death, remaining in the temple was hazardous indeed.

                “I…don’t recall.” Something darkened in her gaze.

                “Come on, Dr. Spalko.”

                “I tell you the truth. I woke up under the rubble and your countrymen found me a few hours later. I suppose I was lucky.” She chuckled darkly, not missing the irony in her statement.

                “Fair enough. I’ll settle for the last thing you remember.”

                She paused for a moment, and Indy wondered if she was going to stop cooperating. Then:

                “…The platform began to rotate,” she said softly. “I saw you go through the door, along with Mary Williams and her son. I heard my men screaming behind me…”

                “…And then?”

                “I awoke under the rubble. It was very dark and dusty.”

                Indy nodded and made a mark in his notebook. Something in him was inclined to believe the Soviet agent. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and the guard entered.

                “As you requested, sir.” He placed a plate of food on the table before them and returned to his post by the door.

                Indy nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to Spalko. He pushed the plate towards her. “Here. No conditions.”

                She gave him an evaluative glance. Then, taking a fingerful of the mash, she placed it carefully on her tongue. Jones watched her with confusion.

                “What, you think I’m going to poison you?”

                “It’s possible, no?”

                “Suit yourself.” Indy crossed his arms and looked at her. “Although I swear it isn’t poisoned.”

                “Allow me to wait. If I’m not convulsing on the floor presently, I will believe you.”

                In spite of himself, Indy chuckled. He has forgotten what a strange character Spalko was. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then she nodded her head slightly and picked up the fork.

                While she ate, Jones flipped through the dossier provided by Ross. It was the same one he had seen in Nevada a few weeks before, with data sheets and a blurry polaroid of Spalko in a Soviet army uniform. Turning over the photograph, he noticed a message scrawled on the back.

                _Subject #240924671. Spalko, Irina Matveyevna. Second World War ca. 1944._

                Spalko pushed the plate away, interrupting his thoughts. “Interesting reading, Dr. Jones?”

                He made a noncommittal noise and closed the cover. “Where were we?”

                “Poisoning.”

                He pursed his lips. “Yes. Now, let’s go back to when the temple collapsed.”

* * *

 

                Pulling the blanket tightly around her shoulders, Irina leaned back against the cell wall. Near the door, a spider scuttled from shadow to shadow, and she watched absently as it disappeared into the darkness. The only illumination came from the crack below the door, thin beams of light that made a grid pattern on the floor. Spalko knew she should try to sleep; Marino made a habit of summoning her for questioning in the dead of night, hoping to capitalize on her grogginess. Even now, she could hear the tap of footsteps in the corridor beyond.

                Closing her eyes, she tried to block out the distractions. Her broken arm still ached, and there were new burns along her back and shoulders that made moving uncomfortable. She was nowhere near to breaking, but fear was a constant, heavy presence. Every jangle of a lock, every heavy footstep outside of her cell squeezed her chest with anxiety. Her superiors would be waiting back on Moscow, ignorant of what had befallen her. Perhaps they would find the bodies of her men at Akator and assume she was dead. There was also the problem of the men who had been captured – if they were still alive. The Americans could torture them, but they knew nothing.

                It had been three days since Spalko’s first interrogation with Jones, and he had asked her nothing of importance. The first day, he had asked her to recount the collapse of the temple and her rescue from the rubble. The next, he had questioned her about her theories related to the thirteen skeletons they had found in the throne room. She had been happy enough to discuss it with him, and she noted with interest his apparent pity for her. He had offered her food each time, and he had even called a medic to set her arm. Spalko didn’t enjoy being the subject of pity, but she saw the practicality of accepting these gestures.

                Marino, on the other hand, was losing patience with her. She responded to his questions with arrogance and bore up under the beatings with stoic silence. Sometimes Ross was present, hovering in the back of the room with a clipboard and pen. At other times, it was only Marino and his assistants. Several times, Marino had threatened to harm her men if she didn’t cooperate, but the threat meant nothing. Spalko knew they would be executed with or without her cooperation. She dreaded informing their families of what had transpired, but it couldn’t be helped.

                Irina was confident in her ability to escape. She had memorized the schedule of the guards, mapped the layout of the prison in her mind, and carefully studied the locking mechanism on her cell door. When she saw an opportunity, she would take it. Once free, she planned to contact her supervisor and arrange for extraction.

                A clicking noise startled her from her thoughts. Her cell door swung open, and a thin-faced guard appeared. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his pale hair was tousled.

                “The prisoner will stand.” His tone was flat, and he put a hand on the pistol that hung from his utility belt.

                Folding her blanket, Spalko stood up slowly. There was no point in struggling, but she couldn’t resist remarking, “Do you not know how late it is?”

                He scowled. “Marino has ordered you to the interrogation room. Comply.”

                She shrugged, pushing down the dread that rose inside her. “As you wish.”


	3. Leverage

                Stepping into the dark room, Indy hung his hat on a peg near the door and flipped on the lights. Ross had offered him a place to stay for the duration of his assignment, and Indy had accepted. The room, located in a hotel across the road from the compound, was barely furnished and yellowed with cigarette smoke. Strips of flypaper hung from the ceiling, and the single cot was draped in a mosquito net. With a sigh, he shoved the net aside and sat down, unlacing his boots.

                For the past week, Ross had kept him busy with what seemed to be mundane tasks: writing endless incident reports about what occurred at Akator, analyzing photographs and relics pulled from the rubble, and interrogating Spalko. She still refused to cooperate, and they spent most of the time sitting in silence. He had quickly discerned that she was receiving no medical care and no food, beyond what he requested during their sessions. Twice, he had tried to broach the subject with Ross, and twice he had been chastised for interfering. This was Marino’s investigation, after all, and if Jones didn’t approve of his methods, it was because he didn’t understand the stakes.

                _The stakes._ Indy pinched his brow and stared up at the ceiling, letting the phrase hang in his mind. He understood that Spalko had knowledge of secret Soviet weapons development, and he saw the danger in neglecting to follow this lead. But if his experience in military intelligence had taught him anything, it was that torture produced unreliable information. Marino was a fool for not recognizing this.

                Guilt over his continued involvement had kept Indy up the past few nights. He found the operation repugnant, and yet he saw no way out. If he quit abruptly, Ross might stop shielding him from the Bureau, and the ensuing investigation could take months. Indy had no interest in spending the next year in a dank Peruvian prison cell, waiting for Marino and his associates to pick through his affairs with a fine-toothed comb. More, he worried about the impact an investigation would have on Marion and her son. Would they believe he had abandoned them again? If the inquiry resulted in Jones being blacklisted, he would never work again, and his career would be in tatters. Would Marion still commit to him, knowing that he had nothing to offer?

                His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he blinked hard, trying to dislodge the headache building behind his eyes. He had to admit, Ross was clever, and yet he hated his old friend. Indy kicked off his boots and reclined on the cot, not bothering to turn off the lights. Above his head, a mosquito was caught in the net, buzzing furiously. Blocking out the sound, Indy closed his eyes and fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

 

                As soon as Spalko stepped into the interrogation room, she knew something was different. Her men were lined up against the wall, eyes downcast and wrists and ankles cuffed. At the far side of the room, Marino paced restlessly, thick glasses catching the light. His lips were pursed, and he only briefly glanced up when the guard pushed her inside.

                “Good morning, Dr. Spalko. Please sit.”

                With a dismissive sniff, she made her way to the table and sat. Marino snapped the cuffs to her ankles, but he had a distracted air.

                “Why are my soldiers here?” She demanded, with more authority than she felt. The air was chilly, but she shivered with foreboding as much as with cold.

                “Ah, yes. Today, we will finally make progress.”

                “What do you mean?”

                Marino snapped around, landing a fist on the tabletop. “I will ask the questions!”

                She shrank back, watching her soldiers exchange a frightened glance. They did not dare to look at her.

                Marino continued. “…and we shall start with a simple one. What is the name of your direct superior?”

                “I will not answer.”

                “Fine.” He motioned to the guard at the door, who crossed the room to where her men stood. With a sinking feeling, she realized what game Marino intended to play. The guard grabbed the shortest man by the shoulders and dragged him forward. He was Dimitry Verenich, a young gunner and munitions expert from Siberia. His dark hair was long and unkempt, and his eyes flashed with terror. Still, she knew that he wouldn’t break. All her soldiers had been personally chosen, and she trusted their loyalty.

                “I see what you are doing, Marino. You can kill them in front of me, but I will not break. Neither will they.”

                A half grin appeared on Marino’s sallow face. “I’d like to test that theory,” he said quietly, crossing his arms. The guard stepped forward, drawing his gun.

* * *

 

                As Indy made his way down the hall, he heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. He picked up his pace, surprised and rattled, and ducked into Ross’ office.

                “General?”

                The older man barely looked up, tapping his pen against the ledger before him. “Indy. Come in.”

                “Did you hear that gunshot? What’s going on?”

                Ross gestured for him to sit. A cup of tea sat untouched near his elbow. “I granted Marino permission to execute the Soviet soldiers in our custody.”

                Indy squinted, rolling the words over in his head. He certainly understood the sentiment, but the men were technically prisoners of war, despite the havoc they’d wreaked in Nevada and at Akator. There had to be a process for administering this sentence.

                Ross seemed to notice his hesitation. “Marino requested this specifically.”

                “Why?”

                “Ask him.” Ross finally put down his pen and looked up, graying eyebrows knitted together. Indy sensed his irritation at being interrupted. “But first, I need you to examine some photographs of relics we found near the temple site. My anthropologists are having some difficulty dating them.”

                Indy felt a spark of interest, and he nodded eagerly. “I trust your people took detailed notes about the dimensions of the relics and the site at which they were found--?

                “—Of course.” Ross pushed an envelope of photographs and jumbled papers across the desk. “You can work in the office across the hall.”

* * *

 

                A few hours later, the sound of a door slamming interrupted Indy’s thoughts. Sitting in the empty office, he had the photographs arrayed beside a map of the Amazon basin, with pins representing each site. He had copied the relevant notes onto the back of each photograph, and he used a magnifying glass to scrutinize the details of each find. Straightening up, he felt a sharp pain in his lower back, and his legs were numb and stiff. A break would do him good, and he had meant to ask Marino about the gunshots. Standing up, he snatched his jacket off the back of the chair and started towards the cell block.

                The passageway outside of the cells was silent, and Marino was nowhere to be found. Still, a faint light spilled from under the door to the interrogation room, and a guard was stationed beside it. Jones greeted the man and motioned for him to open the door.

                Stepping inside, Jones was surprised to see that Marino was gone. Only Spalko remained, slumped forward in her seat, eyes wide and glazed. Near the back wall were the bodies of the soldiers, shrouded neatly in sheets. Behind him, the guard hovered in the doorway, hands hovering near his weapon.

                “Marino isn’t here, Dr. Jones.”

                “I see that. Did he have these men executed?”

                “Yes. He tried to use them as leverage, but the prisoner would rather see her soldiers die than cooperate.”

                “Why has no one come to collect the bodies?”

                The man stared blankly. “Marino didn’t say--”

                “—Well, get someone down here at once.” He glanced at Spalko, and another thought occurred to him. “Also, send for the medic.”

                The guard nodded and disappeared. Jones approached the table.

                “Spalko?”

                The Soviet agent lifted her head slightly, but she didn’t say a word. Her face was scuffed and bruised, and her expression was defeated. There was something heavy in her eyes, and Indy wondered if she felt personally guilty for the deaths of her men. He couldn’t imagine her feeling so human an emotion as guilt. Reaching out, he gently shook her shoulder.

                “Are you hurt? I called for the medic.”

                “No more than usual.” She spat the words, shrugging off his hand. “And my men are beyond help, as you see.”

                “I’m sorry.”

                She shrugged. “They were prepared to die for the Soviet Union. As am I.”

                Jones stared at her for a long moment, searching for a response. She was the first to break the silence.

                “Why are you involved in this? What leverage does Ross have over you?”

Her tone was accusative, but he saw in her eyes that she genuinely wanted an answer. Indy glanced over his shoulder. The guard was still away.

“My family.” Indy didn’t know why he answered; he neither liked nor trusted Spalko. And yet, sitting in the quiet cell with the bodies of her men, he felt like he owed Spalko an answer.

She considered his words, and her eyes softened a bit. “Ah, Mary Williams and her son. The boy is yours, yes?”

“Yes.”

The lock jingled, and the guard stepped back into the cell, trailed by the medic. Indy snapped to attention and waved the medic over.

“The prisoner is injured.”

The medic, a skinny man with wire-frame glasses, approached the table. He nodded respectfully towards Jones. There was a commotion by the door as a third person entered. Jones recognized Marino’s stilted gait. The man wore lifts in one shoe, and whenever he brought down that foot, there was a noticeable clatter. Marino barely acknowledged the medic, turning his eyes to Indy.

“You wanted to see me, Dr. Jones?”

“Yes, I did.” Standing up, Indy crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did you execute the other prisoners?”

“Leverage,” Marino said calmly, as if it were obvious. “Spalko was not forthcoming, and I needed to up the ante.”

“Seems like a waste of human life, doesn’t it?”

Marino glowered. “I will conduct my interrogations as I please.”

Indy returned his glare. “As will I--”

“—Actually, Jones, I have been disappointed with the results of your sessions. You will need to make your questioning more rigorous.”

“Meaning?”

“The prisoner won’t cooperate unless there is the threat of real harm. I will assign one of my men to assist you.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Ross already authorized it.” His lips curled into the ghost of a smile. “Remember that you have family waiting back home. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

Indy refused to look at Marino. His eyes blurred red, and he crossed to the door, shoving past the guard. Marino, the bastard, had taken away the last illusion of choice. He would have to comply with his orders, no matter how twisted, in order to have a chance at going home. He was a prisoner as much as Spalko was. Slamming the door behind him, he clattered up the stairs, seething with powerless rage.

* * *

 

                Spalko found herself upstairs, in a cramped room with tarpapered windows. A large desk occupied most of the space, strewn with books and newspapers. The air was thick and hot, and she could hear the tap of rain on the window. Being this close to the outside was maddening; she could only think of breaking free from her shackles, shattering the window, and slipping into the crowded streets of Iquitos. And yet, her wrists and ankles were cuffed firmly to the chair, and her legs were sore and weak from disuse. Better to wait until a more opportune moment.

                She had been summoned by Ross, who she gathered was in command of this operation. She had been waiting for several minutes, alone in the office, with a guard waiting just outside the door. Trying to pass the time, she craned her neck forward, attempting to read the newspaper on the desk. She glimpsed a headline, in Spanish:

                **[Three Tourists Killed in Airplane Crash]**

Casually interested, she scanned the rest of the page.

                **[An American mother and son were killed after their flight crashed in the Paramillo Massif on Sunday. The bodies of Mary Williams and her son, Henry Williams, have not been recovered. A British citizen, Harold Oxley, 65, was also killed. The pilot, Roberto Alvarez Cruz, was the sole survivor of the tragedy.]**

                Her Spanish was poor, and Spalko had to translate word-by-word. There had been a plane crash, and Mary Williams, her son, and Harold Oxley had all perished. The paper was dated nearly a week ago, but Jones didn’t seem to be aware that the others were dead. It was an interesting piece of information, and one she filed away for future use. She had a feeling that this discovery would afford her an important advantage, and Spalko had learned long ago to trust her hunches.

                She heard the faint sound of voices and snapped her gaze away from the paper, smoothing her expression. Leaving the newspaper in plain view had been careless, and Ross rarely made such sloppy mistakes. He was a cunning adversary, and she was pleased to have finally outmaneuvered him. Finally, she had the key to her escape.


	4. The Spiderweb

Indy dashed up the stairs to the second floor, snatching his room key from his pocket. Reaching his hotel room, he quickly fitted the key into the rusted lock and entered. The space was as he had left it, camp bed neatly made, his half-unpacked suitcase lying on the floor. The shuttered windows let in dusty bars of light. Taking a deep breath, Indy knelt and began shoving clothing into his suitcase.

                No reunion with Marion was worth selling his soul to Ross and Marino. He felt like an insect in a spider web, wrapped in invisible silk, the spider weaving ever closer. If he acquiesced to Marino, he would have to assist in the interrogation in a more substantive way. He would have to torture Spalko; although Marino hadn’t said as much, Indy knew what was meant by “rigorous.” He didn’t want to be party to that, and he knew it would only be the beginning. Ross and Marino would continue to dangle the possibility of freedom over his head, and he would continue to cooperate. If he fled, his life would be his own. He could go to Leipzig or Shanghai; he had friends in both cities, and Marion and Mutt could come to join him. Yes, he would lose his position at Marshall College, but he had a feeling that that was inevitable.

                With this fuzzy plan in his mind, Indy wiped his brow and retrieved the last few items from his end table. As he zipped his suitcase, he heard a ringing from the phone on the opposite wall. His stomach dropped.

                “It’s Jones,” he said quietly, pressing the receiver to his cheek.

                “This is Ross. Marino needs your assistance. It won’t take more than a few hours.”

                Jones could wait that long to leave; a few hours would make no difference. Gritting his teeth, he nodded.

                “Heading over now, sir.” Indy had had only a few hours to himself since arriving in Iquitos, and he hoped that Ross would mistake his agitated state for exhaustion.

                “Good. Meet Marino in the cell block.”

* * *

 

                Spalko was surprised when the cell door clanged open, and Jones walked in. He seemed agitated, brow tightly furrowed, brown hat clutched in his fist. Marino pushed back his chair and stood up, waving Jones over.

                “Ah. You’re finally here.”

                Jones scowled and said nothing.

                “We are getting nowhere. I want you to take over.”

                “Fine.” Jones sounded disgruntled, but he walked to the table and sat.

                “Two guards are stationed outside the door. Summon them if you need assistance.”

                “I know the drill, Agent Marino.”

                Spalko listened to Marino shut the door behind him, leaning back in her chair. The agent had slammed her face into the tabletop, and her nose was swollen and painful. She hadn’t been permitted to sleep in days, and exhaustion was beginning to wear at her. Her body felt light and cold, and Jones’ voice sounded far away.

                “Spalko?”

                She straightened her posture, letting her lips curl into a scowl.

                “Are you all right? Should I get the medic?”

                “No. Let us begin.” There was no sense in delaying the inevitable; Irina had overheard the conversation between Jones and Marino, and she knew that his kindness would soon run out. She didn’t blame Jones for following orders, but his spinelessness rankled her a little. He clearly hated Marino, but he was all too willing to obey. A thought drifted into her mind, bringing her instantly to attention. She knew that Marino was using Mary Williams and the boy as leverage. Therefore, it followed that Jones did not know what had befallen the two.

                Spalko cleared her throat and stared at Jones. “Is this room under surveillance?”

                His tone betrayed his surprise. “Not as far as I know…”

                “Good. Now, I know that you are complying for the sake of Mary Williams and her son--”

                “--Hmm.” He nodded slightly.

                “I have information that may interest you. Have you kept up with the news since arriving in Iquitos?”

                “No.” He squinted at her. “What are you playing at?”

                “Williams and the boy are dead.”

                He let out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t think so. I saw them off myself – they took a flight back to Connecticut.”

                “The airplane crashed. There was a newspaper on Ross’ desk. I saw the headline.”

                He laughed again, but the sound was brittle. Going to the door, he called for the guard.

                “I need every newspaper from the past week. Bring them as soon as possible.”

                The guard nodded and disappeared. Spalko watched with interest as he returned to the table, lacing and unlacing his fingers over and over. They sat in silence until the man returned.

                “Here you are, sir.” The guard dropped a stack of newsprint on the table, smiling slightly. “You are lucky that no one has collected trash from the common room in more than a week.”

                Jones barely nodded, thumbing through the stack. The guard scowled and departed.

                Spalko watched him scan page after page, until he found the headline that she had glimpsed the day before. He read quickly, and she watched as his expression fell. Under the deep tan, his skin was grey.

                “How can this be?” He murmured, reading the page again. Spalko sat quietly, beginning to grow uncomfortable. Just as she prepared to interrupt, he slammed a fist against the table and stood. Taking a fistful of newsprint, he flung it towards the wall. The paper drifted to the ground, and he tracked it quietly, eyes burning with rage and grief.

                “Why didn’t Ross tell me?”

                “He is not your friend,” Spalko said baldly, with a shrug. “He didn’t want to lose his grip on you.”

                “You’re right.” The anger still shone in his eyes, but his voice was dead.

                “…But now that he has lost his leverage, you can leave.”

                Jones nodded slowly, forehead creased. She could see that he was thinking very hard about something, and this piqued her interest.

                “Jones?”

                “Ross betrayed me.”

                “Yes.”

                His lips turned up in the ghost of a smile. “I’m going to hit him where it hurts, take something that is of crucial importance to him.”

                His tone was quiet, conspiratorial. “And that is?” she questioned.

                “Spalko, I want to help you escape.”

* * *

 

                Jones found himself leaning on the windowsill of his hotel room, nursing a glass of Peruvian brandy. The beginnings of a headache had taken root behind his eyes, and he blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. His thoughts were a jumble of burning planes and looming mountains, and he swore he could smell the bite of smoke in the air. Below, the street was nearly empty, and a flock of birds had settled on the empty market stall. In the distance, he could see the shaded drive leading to the prison.

                Indy didn’t know what had possessed him to offer to help Spalko. Certainly, it would be therapeutic to defy Ross so openly. Imagining his face when he realized they were gone brought a perverse sort of joy, and he smiled in spite of himself. But the repercussions of helping a known Soviet operative escape US custody would be dire. Not only would he lose his teaching position and career, he could also be in legal trouble.

                Nothing, however, would prevent him from following his previous plan and escaping to Leipzig. It would be easy enough to trek through the jungle until he reached Lima, then charter a plane to Germany. Having Spalko with him would be a complicator, but the damage to Ross and his project was worth the trouble. Indy had done a fair bit of traveling in the jungle, and he knew he would need mosquito nets, a water filter, and nonperishable food. He already had weapons, matches, and a compass. He estimated that it would take them six weeks to make the journey, shorter if they found transportation.

                Freeing Spalko would be more difficult. The complex was heavily guarded, and there was only one set of stairs connecting the cell block with the ground level. He would need to get Spalko to the ground floor if the plan was going to work. He supposed he could manufacture a distraction and get the guards to leave them alone. He could bring Spalko to Ross’ office on some pretext, then escape through the window. His mind flashed to the array of photographs arranged in the workroom opposite the office. He had taken great care to arrange each documented artifact chronologically, and he was loathe to disturb them. Perhaps he could request Spalko’s help in dating an artifact and request that Ross allow her to visit his workroom. There was a large window at the back of the room, and below was an alley, perfect for slipping away undetected.

                Thus decided, Indy drained the rest of his brandy and set the cup on the floor. The sun was beginning to set, and he felt the first prick of a mosquito bit on his arm. Standing up, he slammed the window shut and stretched, feeling a little better. Marion’s death was a gaping wound, but he could function if he kept himself distracted. He hoped that breaking a foreign operative out of prison would be distraction enough.

* * *

 

                Spalko leaned heavily against the wall of her cell, picking at a loose thread on her blanket. She felt cold and exhausted, and her ribs ached every time she took a breath. Marino was becoming frustrated with her defiance, and whatever compassion he had initially held for her was gone. The previous session had been particularly punishing, and her legs were covered with blistering burns. Still, she was no closer to breaking than when she had arrived. She was ardently, unshakably loyal to the Soviet Union, and even death was preferable to treason.

                The possibility of escape filled her with a cautious hope. Jones had spoken out of strong emotion, and she didn’t know if he would follow through on his offer. Furthermore, she didn’t know why he had offered to help her. There was still bad blood between them, and his interests were certainly not aligned with hers. She certainly respected his reputation, but she didn’t particularly like Jones, and she assumed he felt the same way towards her. They were at opposite sides of an interminable war, and she saw no future for them as allies.

                Her thoughts in turmoil, Spalko closed her eyes. It would be prudent to rest while she had the opportunity. Her mind would be clearer in the morning, and she could prepare herself for her next meeting with Jones. Escaping with his help would be much easier than attempting it alone, but much could still go wrong. She would need to be alert and ready to act if she wanted success. With this thought in her mind, she silenced her thoughts and fell asleep.

 


	5. You Can't Carry It with You

               By the next morning, Indy was ready. He had made a discreet trip to the local market for supplies, stashing them in a knapsack at the end of the alley he’d glimpsed the day before. Planning the escape had kept him up most of the night, and his eyes burned with exhaustion. He could think of no more elegant plan than simply distracting the guard and slipping out the office window. He anticipated that they would need to fight; Ross would give chase, and he wouldn’t let them go easily. For this, Indy carried two small pistols tucked in his boots. A few extra rounds were tucked in the inner pocket of his jacket.

                Taking a last glance around his hotel room, Indy flipped off the lights. The stairwell was empty and cold, the street just beginning to fill with the usual mix of pedestrians and well-worn flatbed trucks. The cobblestones caught the early morning sunlight. Crossing the street quickly, Indy made his way towards the prison. His chest was tight and heavy, but he told himself not to think of Marion until the escape was complete.

                When he reached the prison, he headed straight to Ross’ office. He raised his fist to knock, and the door opened under his hand. Ross stood before him, dressed smartly in a collared shirt and slacks. A file was tucked under his arm.

                “Indy, you’re early.”

                He nodded, hoping that his unease didn’t show. “I’m having trouble identifying one of the photographs from Akator. Do you have additional field notes?”

                As expected, Ross shook his head. “I’m sorry. My men are not archeologists. They don’t always know what’s important.”

                “Fair enough,” Indy said quietly. “Say…”

                “What is it?”

                “…Can I have Spalko take a look? She was at Akator as well.”

                Ross furrowed his brow and nodded. “I suppose.”

                With what he hoped was a reassuring nod, Indy stepped around Ross and headed for the cell block. The passageway was empty and quiet, and he could hear the distant drip of water. He felt the cold metal of the hidden pistols against his ankles. Despite himself, he felt a spark of excitement in his chest.

                When he reached the cell, Marino was standing outside, conversing quietly with the guard. A lit cigarette was pinched between his fingers. Coughing a little, Jones gave him a nod.

                “Morning, Marino.”

                “What brings you here?” There was disdain in the other man’s voice.

                “I need to speak to the prisoner. Ross and I need her help in identifying some photographs from Akator.”

                Marino nodded dismissively and used his free hand to push his glasses onto his nose. Indy smiled tightly and entered the cell.

* * *

 

                Spalko awoke to the sound of footfalls outside her cell. It was still early, and she caught a glimpse of the night shift guard through the barred window. Sitting up, she grimaced at the stiffness in her back. The burns on her legs still stung fiercely, and her ribs hurt each time she took a breath. When Jones saw her battered state, he might choose to leave her behind. She couldn’t imagine trekking through the jungle for a few weeks, and she knew she’d be a liability to Jones. If she were in his position, she knew what choice she’d make.

                Still, escaping alone would be more difficult, and she found herself hoping that Jones would keep to their plan. She knew he had offered to help because he wanted to take something from Ross and Marino, and she was a key component of their investigation. A clanging in the hall drew her attention back to the present, and she shrugged off her blanket, folding it neatly. She straightened her rumpled clothes and ran her fingers through her hair, now matted and caked with blood. Finally, she faced the door, twisting her lips into a scowl.

                “Hello?” The door swung open, and Jones appeared. He held his fedora in his hands, and a day’s growth of stubble adorned his chin. His eyes flickered over her, and she could see the wheels turning in his head.

                “Jones. I have been waiting.”

                He brushed her words aside. “Good morning, Dr. Spalko. I need you to help me identify some artifacts from Akator.”

                She nodded shortly, eyes alight with interest. Getting to her feet, she tried to hide her wince. He led her up the stairs, and the guard trailed them, truncheon at the ready. She had spent little time on the ground floor, and she glanced around carefully, taking in details. Down the long hallway were two doors and beyond that, a vestibule. A single soldier stood guard at the entrance. They walked a short distance, and then Jones steered her through one of the doors.

“Please sit,” he said, pointing to the card table and chair at the center of the room. “I can’t identify numbers 139 to 183. The field notes are written on the back of each photograph.”

She sat, all the while taking in the spartan furnishings of the office. A single bookcase stood opposite the window, stacked with dusty folders. A handful of photographs were arrayed on the table before her, pinned neatly in sequence. Several caught her interest, and she picked up a polaroid of a small wooden statue, with the number **149** scribbled on the back. As she browsed, Jones spoke to the guard.

“Handcuffs, please?”

She hardly paid attention as he snapped one side of the cuffs to the leg of the table. With one hand, he took her wrist, and his fingers were calloused and cold. With the other, he fiddled with the lock.

“I think there’s something wrong with the locking mechanism. Could you go get another set of cuffs from Marino?”

Finally, the exchange caught Spalko’s attention. Jones was up to something, and she guessed that it had to do with the escape. She kept her eyes on the photograph, listening intently.

                “Let me try…” The guard stepped forward, but Indy waved him away.

                “I’d rather not risk using faulty cuffs.”

                With a huff of annoyance, the guard gave in. Spalko waited until she heard his retreating footfalls, and then she looked up.

                “What are you doing?”

“We’re going to break the window and climb down to the alley,” he whispered, extracting a pistol from his boot and handing it to Spalko.

She nodded briskly and stowed the weapon in the pocket of her fatigue pants, trying to still the shaking of her hands. The knowledge that this was the moment of their escape buzzed uneasily in her mind.

As soon as she stood, Jones picked up the chair and bashed it into the window. The shattering of the glass was deafening, and shards flew through the air, cutting her face and hands. She heard the wail of an alarm, and Jones leapt up on the windowpane, kicking away the remaining glass. She stepped up behind him, staring down into the alley.

The drop was nearly two stories, and the alley was paved in brick. Nevertheless, Jones dropped nimbly to the ground, rolling to break his fall. Taking a deep breath, she followed, bending her knees as she hit the ground. Her joints protested, but she seemed intact, and so Irina retrieved the gun from her pocket and asked:

“What now?”

                The alarm continued to wail above their heads, and she heard shouting in the distance. Somewhere near the front of the prison, an engine grumbled to life.

                “Run. If anyone follows us, start shooting.”

                They dashed towards the end of the alley, and Spalko kept watch over her shoulder, weapon in hand. At the end of the alley, Jones darted into the shadows and retrieved a large rucksack. She covered him, waiting anxiously for one of Ross’ men to appear.

                Just as Jones returned to her side, she glimpsed the flash of a barrel near the window. She barked for Jones to keep moving and sent off a few warning shots down the alley. The soldier returned fire, and she ducked as a bullet hit the brick above her head, sending bits of rock falling. Firing with one hand, she followed Jones into the street, where he dashed for an idling truck parked across the way.

                “Get in!”

                She fell against the passenger side door, fumbling for the handle. She hardly had time to climb onto the seat before Jones took off, careening wildly down the road. Leaning out the window, she saw a squad of soldiers appear at the mouth of the alleyway. She opened fire for good measure, and they ducked.

                They were already near the edge of the city, and Jones took a winding path through the side streets and alleyways, until they had reached the edge of the jungle. Behind them was the distant hum of traffic, and they both knew that Ross wouldn’t be far behind. Spalko used the momentary calm to reload her handgun, and Jones slowed down, turning onto an unpaved logging road.

                “We’ll go as far as we can, then abandon the truck,” he said decisively.

* * *

 

                After the truck ran out of gas, Indy and Spalko walked until the sun began to set. It was oppressively hot under the canopy of trees, and mosquitos gnawed at his arms and face. The ground was muddy, and they kept up a slow pace, pushing through the underbrush. Just as the shadows began to deepen, Indy spotted the crumbling remains of a wall ahead. The jungle was dotted with structures such as these, and they offered some protection from the elements. Silently, he jogged towards the wall and set his pack down. He waved Spalko over.

                “Stop here?”

                She nodded, dropping at his side. In the dim light, her face was grey and pinched, and her eyes were glazed with exhaustion. She was careful to show no indication of pain, but Jones doubted she could continue walking through the night. Her fractured arm hung in its makeshift sling, and her legs were swollen and bruised. Her arms, like his, were pocked with insect bites.

                Silently, Indy opened the knapsack and took stock of their supplies. He had taken care to refill their canteen, and there was enough food to last a month or so. A vial of quinine, a roll of bandages, bullets, a rope, a compass, matches, and a knife rounded out their supply. Digging out an MRE bar, he snapped it in half.

                “Food?”

                Spalko shook her head, and Indy bit into the bar, wincing at the sawdust taste. Making quick work of the food, he stood up to gather firewood. Finding dry twigs was more difficult than he had anticipated, and by the time he’d found enough, Spalko had already dug a small depression a few feet from the wall. Dropping the kindling inside, he struck a match, then added a few larger branches.

                They sat in silence, watching the flames cast wide, flickering shadows over the ground. In the distance, he heard the call of an unfamiliar bird and the trickle of running water. Farther away, there was the growl of a jaguar.

Spalko glanced at him. “Shall we take watches?”

                He nodded quickly, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He was apprehensive about trusting Spalko to watch his back, and there was nothing to prevent her from making off with their supplies and leaving him to the mercies of the wilderness. And yet, the fact that she was injured would compel her to stay, if nothing else.

                She smiled thinly. “I am not going to kill you in your sleep, Dr. Jones. After all, you helped me escape.”

                “Are you trying to thank me?”

                She shrugged. “I assume you only assisted me because your interests align with mine.”

                She was right, and he returned her smile grudgingly. “I’ll take first watch. Good night, Dr. Spalko.”

                “Good night.”

                She let her head fall back against the ruined wall and closed her eyes. Indy blinked wearily at the fire, lacing and unlacing his hands. The last time he’d been forced to survive in the Amazon, he’d nearly died of Typhus. This time, he was better prepared, but having an additional person along was a complicating factor. But as long as he was preoccupied with staying alive, he didn’t have to think about Marion. Marion, who was dead in the Andes, along with their son.

                Pushing the thought away, Indy growled, and tossed a twig into the fire.


	6. Disappointment

Spalko placed her feet carefully on the muddy ground, pushing branches aside as she walked. Jones followed behind her, carrying the knapsack of supplies. The day was already sweltering, and the canopy above them shimmered in the heat. Morning sunlight sifted through the leaves, bathing the forest in a dim green glow. Her jacket was tied around her waist, and she carried her pistol in her free hand.

So far, there had been no sign of Ross and Marino. Irina was sure that they were searching, but the Amazon was vast, and finding them would be nearly impossible. With every step deeper into the forest, the squeeze of anxiety in her chest lessened a bit. As much as she had maintained her outward composure, American custody had rattled her. The sting of her blistered legs reminded her what awaited if she were recaptured, and she ground her teeth, walking faster.

Jones stepped up to her side, cap tipped low over his eyes. His clothes were rumpled and stained with sweat, and he held their canteen in one hand.

“We’re almost out of water.”

“We are only a few kilometers from the river.” Spalko jerked her chin forward. She had a vague idea of where they were in relation to Iquitos, and she estimated that the river ran perpendicular to their course. Jones offered her the last of the water, but she shook her head.

“We should conserve it.”

They approached a small hill, and the terrain grew steeper. Stowing her weapon, she listened to the distant rush of the river, the crash of water on rocks. The ground was swampier here, littered with dead leaves and brush. A small creek cut through the base of the hill, winding towards the river. The creek bed was slippery and lined with rocks, but she managed to cross quickly, scrambling up the opposite bank.  

Jones overtook her, picking his way up the muddy hill. Her muscles protested as she climbed up after him, and there was a stabbing pain in her ribs with each breath. A sudden wave of dizziness clouded her vision, and her knees buckled. She was barely aware of hitting the ground, and when she regained awareness, she felt a light pressure on her shoulder.

“Spalko?” Jones shook her arm, and she opened her eyes to find him kneeling beside her. He had placed his jacket under her head, and his brow was furrowed.

She managed a faint greeting and tried to sit up, but Jones gestured for her to stay put. “We should stop for the day.”

The thought of allowing Ross and Marino to catch up with them brought on a dull panic, but she tabled her objections for the time being. Jones rummaged through the rucksack, and then the metal of the canteen clinked against her teeth.

“Here. Drink.”

After a few sips, Jones withdrew the canteen. “Do you think you can make it to the river? This isn’t a suitable place to camp.”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded weak and hoarse, but she managed to push herself upright. Jones offered an arm, and she took it.

Together, they made their way the last few kilometers to the river, moving slowly. Spalko leaned heavily against his arm, too spent to be concerned about their physical proximity. When they came within sight of the riverbank, he gestured to a particularly large tree up ahead. The roots arched high above the ground and would provide a decent frame for their tarp.

“Here. I’ll refill our canteen.”

* * *

 

Indy walked slowly back from the river, swinging his canteen. The day had not gone according to plan, and he was frustrated to lose a day of travel. And yet, Spalko was in no condition to trek through the jungle, and he wouldn’t consider leaving her behind. He had only taken her along as an affront to Ross and Marino, but he didn’t relish the idea of traveling alone. His brush with Typhus a few years prior had reinforced for him the dangers of the jungle. If something went wrong, it was better to have a partner.

Reaching the campsite, he found Spalko sitting in the shade of the tree. She had taken off her boots and rolled up her fatigue pants, and she was in the process of tearing out the lining of her jacket for bandages. Her legs were mangled and blistered, but she looked more annoyed than pained.

“Hello, Jones.” She nodded, not looking up.

Indy dropped down beside her. “How do you feel?”

She shrugged. “Let me apply these bandages, and I will be ready to continue.”

“No. We’re stopping for the day,” he said decisively, giving her an incredulous look.

“Stop if you wish. I intend to continue.” Her eyes flashed with irritation, but he didn’t miss the fear underneath her chilly demeanor.

He leaned forward. “Why are you so intent on continuing? It’s foolish--”

“--Ross and Marino are doubtless tracking us. I cannot go back to the prison.”

“Trying to find us will be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

“Haystack?” She looked up at him, confused by the idiom.

“It’s an American expression. The Amazon is too vast for them to be able to find us.”

“Ah.” She tossed her jacket aside and began wrapping her legs. Jones took a sip from the canteen, feeling the tension begin to dissipate.

“Really, Dr. Spalko. We’ll make better time tomorrow if we rest today.”

She sighed and looked past him, considering this. Then: “Fine. I agree.”

He smiled inwardly and leaned back on his elbows. An unseen animal rustled the leaves above his head, and he glimpsed the flash of a brightly-colored wing. The sky had faded to gray, promising rain, and a light wind stirred the branches. A few months ago, he would have enjoyed the relative peace. Now, it made room for thoughts of Marion and his son. It was better to keep his mind engaged, in order to keep from drowning.

Digging through the rucksack, he retrieved the knife and began to sharpen it. The whetstone fit neatly into his palm, and he watched in satisfaction as the blade flashed against the surface. Eventually, they would need to resort to hunting to supplement their food supply. He estimated that they had enough MREs to last for three weeks, four if they were careful.

Spalko broke the silence. “Why are you not leaving me behind?” Her tone was blandly curious, and Indy was surprised by the question.

“We’re allies,” he responded with a shrug. “Besides, it’s dangerous to travel in the jungle alone.”

She nodded in agreement. Then she said grudgingly, “I appreciate your assistance.”

“It’s just practical.”

“Nonetheless--”

“—You’re welcome.”

* * *

 

Crouched under the tarp, Irina stared out at the falling rain. It was nearly dusk, but the weather had precluded them from building a fire. Beside her, Jones held up a few strips of bark, fashioning a snare. He squinted in the dim light, then crossed one ribbon over the others, knotting it tightly. The knife sat beside him, and he retrieved it to trim away the excess fibers. Finally satisfied, he stashed the snare in the knapsack and brushed off his hands.

Spalko was still irritated by the time they had lost, but the rest had been much needed. Her dizziness had subsided, and her ribs no longer burned with each breath. Their campsite was a good one, and the tarp kept the ground mostly dry. She could hear the river roaring in the distance, but they were too far away to worry about flash floods. Stretching her legs in front of her, she glanced at Jones.

“What will you do when we arrive in Lima?” Spalko would go back to Moscow, of course, but Jones would still be evading authorities.

“I have friends in Leipzig, friends in Shanghai…my skills are always in demand.” He said this with a gruff confidence that wasn’t exactly pride. Jones was well-known among anthropologists and treasure hunters alike, and Spalko had been familiar with his work long before the mission to Akator.

Spalko nodded silently in response.

“And you?”

“I will return to Moscow. My commanding officer awaits my report.”

“And what will you tell them? That you didn’t find anything?”

She shrugged. “They were interested in the skull as an experimental weapon. Obviously, that application is not feasible.”

He laughed shortly. “No, I guess it’s not.”

Without really meaning to speak, she found herself continuing. “My failure will be a great disappointment. I had hoped…” She trailed off.

“…What?”

Well, never mind what she had hoped. Despite her high rank in the Science and Technology Directorate, she was all too aware of how other officers perceived her. Born in a rural village in the Carpathian Mountains, she had been ostracized and scorned for her unusual gifts. Some called her a psychic, but she simply knew how to read a face. Subtle and oft-overlooked details, like a twitch of the mouth or jut of the chin told her just what her subject was thinking. Her mother was dead, and her father was a mercurial alcoholic, which gave her ample opportunity to hone her skills. When her pleas to attend school fell on deaf ears, she nicked her brothers’ science textbooks and read them by candlelight. With a borrowed pocketknife, she dissected the dead mice she collected from the barn, meticulously following the steps outlined in the textbooks. In her notebooks, she carefully sketched and documented everything she saw.

Just before her fifteenth birthday, her father had discovered the sketches and accused her of witchcraft. Girls were not supposed to study biology, and her dissections could only be for devilish purposes. He had tossed her out, and she had hitchhiked her way to Kiev, where she found work as a sniper for the Red Army. The year was 1942, and no one looked too critically at the age on her identity papers. She had spent years working her way up in the ranks, and eventually her talents had caught the attention of a high-level officer in the KGB. Yes, she was a Ukrainian and a woman, but the Soviet Union was in no position to reject talented recruits. And yet, there was always the pressure to prove she belonged, to assert her value as a soldier and a scientist. Her failure was a disappointment, indeed.

She settled for a shrug. “I had hoped for a more favorable outcome.”

Jones glanced at her, saying nothing. In the darkness, she could barely make out his face. Finally: “How in the hell did you survive Akator?”

It was a fair question, but one she couldn’t answer. “I don’t know. And you? You were also in the temple when it collapsed.”

“Blink luck, I guess. I had a bad feeling, so I told Mutt and Marion to run. We barely made it out before the walls crumbled behind us.” There was a slight hitch in his voice, and Irina was reminded that it had only been a few days since he learned of his family’s fate.

“…Thank you, by the way. For telling me what happened to them.”

“You deserved to know.”

“Ross betrayed my trust.”

“Yes.”

Spalko felt exhaustion dragging at her limbs, and she was relieved when Jones broke the silence. “I’ll take first watch?”

“Fine.” The ground was cold and muddy, so she settled for leaning against the tree that anchored their shelter. Letting her eyes drift shut, she listened to the tap of the rain on the tarp. She hoped that the weather would deter Ross and Marino from continuing the search; the creeping anxiety in the back of her mind kept her from sleep. Death would be preferable to returning to prison, and she was bound and determined to make it to Lima. Even if the mission itself had ended in failure, she hoped her field data would prove useful. At the very least, it would allow the Directorate to eliminate that particular line of research. Fixing this thought in her mind, she slowed her breathing and fell asleep. 


	7. Currents

Indy awoke to darkness and the hiss of a whisper in his ear. Stretched out on the cold ground, he heard the slosh of rain on the tarp above his head. Instinctively, he felt for his knife, and found it where he had left it, holstered neatly at his side. With a groan, he forced his eyes open to find Spalko kneeling over him, shaking his shoulder.

“Jones!”

Alarmed by her insistent tone, Indy sat up, dragging a hand over his eyes. “What is it?”

“Do you hear something?”

He paused. Over the steady tap of rain and rustling leaves, there was the unmistakable crack of a gunshot, loud enough to have originated a few miles away. This was followed by a chorus of distant shouts and the percussion of a motor backfiring. Finally, there was the cacophonous howl of tracking hounds. He looked at Spalko, and saw his own panic reflected in her eyes. Without speaking, they started to gather their things. With shaking hands, Indy tore down the tarp and stuffed it into his backpack, not bothering to shake off the rainwater.

Spalko unholstered her gun and clicked off the safety. “Let’s go.”

Indy followed her into the underbrush. Despite the darkness and rain, they made good time, and soon reached the banks of the river. There was a sudden clap of thunder, and a faint vein of lightning appeared in the sky. Spalko approached the embankment and slid down slowly, then stepped to the edge of the water. Indy followed, and handfuls of dirt crumbled around him as he climbed down. The river was moving quickly, and his feet slipped against the sand. Spalko untangled her arm from the makeshift sling and switched the gun to her opposite hand.

“It will be more difficult for them to track us in the water.”

Indy looked dubiously at the rushing water before them, noting the rocks and debris half-hidden under the surface. He had seen people swept away by lesser rivers, and the steady rain meant that the current would only continue to gain strength. Somewhere behind them, he heard a loud barking, and headlights swept the trees. Indy bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder, then tightened the straps of his pack.

“Let’s go.”

Linking arms against the current, they waded into the river. The water was cold and murky, and Indy placed his feet carefully. The riverbed was uneven and slippery, but his feet sunk into the mud, anchoring him a little. Beside him, Spalko still held her pistol, and her knuckles were white against the grip. Scanning the trees, he saw the distant flicker of a flashlight, and a new chorus of shouts began. A chill shot down his spine.

“Too late,” Spalko muttered, squeezing his arm.

A sudden column of light swept the bank in front of them, and he heard the crunch of boots on sand. Someone lit a lantern, and Indy saw that there were nearly a dozen soldiers standing at the water’s edge. With a start, he recognized the closest figure as Agent Marino. His lips stretched into a triumphant smile, and his eyeglasses caught the light. Indy knew that he had spotted them. Slowly backing into the water, he felt for his pistol, unhooking his free arm from Spalko’s as he moved. Her eyes were wild with terror and dread, but she had already raised her weapon, and her hand was steady.            

Marino’s voice echoed over the water. “You will surrender at once! Drop your weapons and place your hands in the air.”

Scanning the bank, Indy counted at least twelve soldiers, all armed to the teeth. Reluctantly, he holstered his pistol and complied with the order. He supposed that there would be better chances to fight, and he recognized the weakness of his position, standing in a fast-moving river with only a low-caliber pistol. As soon as his hands were up, a flashlight was trained on his face, blinding him momentarily.

“Dr. Jones, I want you to approach the bank.”

He sloshed forward, keeping his eyes on Marino. Once on the sand, he dropped to his knees, shivering in the chilly night air. A soldier approached him and shoved his shoulder roughly.

“Stay on the ground.”

Lying on his stomach, Indy caught a glimpse of Spalko standing in the middle of the creek, anchored defiantly in place. The soldier had planted a boot against the middle of his back, pinning him to the sand. The rough grains bit into his cheek, but he hardly noticed, listening intently.

“I don’t want to return, Marino. I’d much rather you kill me.” Spalko’s voice was calm.

The agent snarled, and from the trees, he heard the baying of the dogs draw closer. “Comply. Now.”

There was a tense silence, and Indy heard the click of a rifle being reloaded. He gulped, expecting at any moment to see Spalko drop in a hail of bullets. Instead:

“Fine. Allow me to holster my handgun.”

Marino made a noise of assent, and Spalko slowly lowered her arm, strapping the weapon to her belt. Once she was finished, she raised her hands.

“Now, walk towards the bank, and be careful. We will not hesitate to shoot.”

Irina paused for a moment, as if preparing to obey Marino’s directive. Then, in the blink of an eye, she dropped her arms and slipped under the surface of the river. With a shout of consternation, Marino drew his gun.

“Open fire!”

There was a series of explosions behind him, and Indy heard the splash of bullets hitting the water. With a boot against his back, he could only watch tensely. He didn’t know if Spalko could swim, and the gunfire was as likely to kill her as the current. When no body bobbed to the surface, Marino gestured for his men to spread out.

“Find the prisoner! Now!”

The pressure against his spine abruptly eased, and the soldier jerked him to his feet. Indy watched Marino whirl around, waving his men into the water. Indy felt an arm lock around his throat, and a voice snapped in his ear:

“Stay still.”

Just as he was preparing a reply, there was the crack of a shot. The soldier guarding Indy fell to the ground with a thud, clutching his chest. Indy stepped past him and ran into the trees, ignoring the branches that tore at his arms. There was a brief flash in the darkness somewhere upstream, and a chorus of shouts. Picking up the pace, Jones sped into the darkness, heading for higher ground.

* * *

 

Spalko dove into the muddy water, listening to the muffled shouts above her head. Near the middle, the creek was nearly ten feet deep, and she kept to this section, swimming against the current. Her lungs burned, and she heard the hail of bullets hitting the water, but she kept on, fueled by the terror of going back with Marino.

Somewhere above her, flashlight beams lit up the water. Changing course, she swam for the opposite side of the river, and the heavy tangle of roots that tumbled from the edge of the bank. When she reached the shadows, she surfaced for air, keeping an eye on the action downstream. Backing deeper into the canopy of roots and rotted vegetation, she watched a soldier jerk Jones to his feet, wrapping an arm around his neck. Every instinct screamed at Irina to stay hidden, but she glided forward, reaching for her gun. The first bullet felled the soldier guarding Jones, and Spalko was relieved to see him drop. Jones darted for the trees as the attention of the search party turned to her.

Spalko fired off a random spray of bullets and holstered her gun, then took a gulping breath and slipped underwater. She was aware of a stinging pain in her side, and her barely-healed arm burned with the exertion of propelling her forward. After a few minutes, she surfaced to take a breath, and found the shore empty. After swimming a few more meters for good measure, she paused again, listening intently. She could still hear the shouting of the search party, but the sound was farther away. Thus decided, she took hold of a sturdy tangle of roots and scrambled up the bank, shaking the water from her clothes.

The night was cloudy, and visibility was poor. Spalko drew her weapon and began to run. Moving through the darkness, she stayed roughly parallel to the river, casting furtive glances behind her. Her clothes were wet and heavy, and her boots were waterlogged. The darkness and rain kept the mosquitoes at bay, but she worried quietly about wild animals and poisonous insects hidden by the night. Still, she ran until her knees buckled and she hit the ground, too exhausted to keep moving.

As the sky grew lighter, she gathered her strength and moved towards a nearby rock, pulse loud in her ears. The stinging in her side was sharper now, and she noticed a circle of blood on her fatigues. One of the bullets had grazed her, but it didn’t seem serious. It was a small price to pay for escape. Marino was gone, and with any luck, Jones had slipped away. If he continued along the route they’d plotted, he would eventually find her. Until then, she supposed she would wait.

* * *

 

A few hours after dawn, Jones caught up with her. Spalko still sat on the rock, pistol propped against her knees. When Jones stepped out of the trees, fedora pushed low over his eyes, she gave him an exhausted nod.

“You made it.”

He swung the rucksack off his shoulder and sat down beside her, dragging a hand over his brow. “You’re not a bad shot.”

She smiled, feeling no need to contradict him. “I was a sniper in the Great Patriotic War.”

“No kidding.” He glanced at her, eyes lighting momentarily. Then: “Thanks for giving me a change to escape.”

She shrugged. “I owed you.”

“Can we consider ourselves even?”

She nodded, and he offered his hand. Despite the heat, his palm was cool and dry, and she gave his hand a robust shake. The old resentments were breaking down between them, and she found herself strangely pleased that he had managed to find her. Yes, travelling with a partner was safer and more efficient, but she was certain she could survive on her own. More relevant here was her own feeling that Jones was a skilled and trustworthy companion. She could hardly admit it to herself, but she enjoyed his company.

Jones broke off the handshake and began untying the rucksack. Retrieving the canteen and two MRE bars, he handed the food to her.

“Eat.”

She nodded and took a sip from the canteen. While they ate, they examined the battered map that Jones had brought along. She quickly found the small river and pointed to a dot to the southwest. If they swung around the Brazilian border, they would make it to Lima in six weeks’ time. Between the two cities were small pockets of civilization, and she supposed they could steal a truck or stow away aboard a ship traveling down the Ucayali river. The knowledge that Marino was not far behind them gnawed at her, and she didn’t relish the thought of encountering him again.

“We are not moving quickly enough,” she said softly, pointing to their location, only a few dozen kilometers outside of Iquitos. “I think we should find transportation in Nauta. It is only sixty kilometers from our location.”

“If we keep a good pace, we’ll arrive in three days.” Jones bit his lip, staring thoughtfully at the map.

“Yes.”

“There are plenty of riverboats in Nauta. We could stow away or sell something to pay for passage.”

“We could also steal a truck.”

“A boat might be more practical.”

She shrugged and folded the map carefully, returning it to the pack. Jones stood.

“I think we should keep going.”

Swinging the pack over her shoulder, Spalko followed, ignoring the stiffness in her muscles. Every step hurt, but she gritted her teeth and followed Jones into the jungle.


	8. Shot in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back! Let me know if I get anything wrong about Peruvian geography or culture; Google is unreliable sometimes. Thanks for reading!

Through the rain, Nauta looked bleak and grey. A jumble of stilt houses, plywood shacks, and overturned fishing boats lined the shore of the Ucayali river, and a few larger boats were tied to an aging dock. A stone church and a few crumbling colonial-era buildings flanked the small plaza near the center of town. Standing at the top of a small hill, Indy watched the fishing boats bob in the rain, tightening the straps of his backpack.

It had taken them nearly four days to reach Nauta, slowed down by the need to avoid detection by Ross and Marino. Traveling via the beaten paths was out of the question, and they had taken several detours to avoid the more populated areas. Now, Indy was reasonably sure that they had managed to lose their pursuers. It only remained to find a ship to take them to Lima and freedom.

Beside him, Spalko stepped onto the road, smoothing her hair with one hand. They were both bedraggled and rain-soaked, but Indy supposed that there was no chance of blending in regardless. They had spent the better part of the journey arguing about how to pay for their passage, and Spalko still looked disgruntled. Given that they had a gun, Indy wanted to sell the knife. Everything else was indispensable, and they could buy better weapons once they reached Lima. Spalko, however, insisted that they should part with the vial of quinine.

“The chances are low that we’d survive malaria under the current circumstances,” she’d argued cynically, picking up the knife and testing the blade against a nearby branch. “And quinine is not readily available in Nauta, while knives are cheap.”

He’d grudgingly acquiesced, and so they would attempt to sell the medicine in town. Indy carried the small bottle in his pocket, wrapped carefully in a strip of cloth. With every step, it bumped against his leg, and he silently fretted about the odds of finding a ride. Now, as he looked at the poor assortment of rickety boats along the river’s edge, he resisted the urge to panic.

“Let’s go.” Spalko pushed past him and set off down the road.

They soon reached the plaza, which was nearly deserted. Under an awning, an elderly man sat crouched, a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.

“ _Buenas tardes_.” Indy greeted him politely in Spanish, inclining his head. The man plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and stood with a wince. Dressed in fatigue pants and a faded tee shirt, he wore his sparse hair carefully combed towards his forehead. He looked at the pair with suspicion, then began speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.

“What brings you to Nauta? And on such a gloomy day?”

“Vehicle trouble,” Indy said neutrally, “We are looking for passage to Lima.”

“Lima? Today?”

“Well, as soon as possible.”

The man twirled his cigarette in his fingers, watching the smoke collect near the top of the awning. “My cousin is leaving for Goyllarisquizga tomorrow. If you can pay his fare, he will let you come along.”

“Why not Lima?”

“Lima cannot be reached by river. It’s only 100 miles from Goyllarisquizga, and I suppose you can walk.”

Indy felt a spark of hope. “May we speak with him?”

The man shrugged and gestured for them to follow. They cut across the rainswept plaza and towards the river. After a few minutes, he stopped in front of a wooden fishing shack, old but freshly whitewashed.

“Gabriel? It’s Mauricio.”

In response to the call, the door swung open and a short man appeared. He was middle-aged and dressed in the same manner as their guide, and his skin was leathery and rough from a lifetime on the water. Glancing at the visitors, he crossed his arms.

“Mauricio, why are you bothering me? I am working on my nets today.”

Indy cast his eyes into the house, where a great heap of netting lay tangled by the far wall.

“Can you take passengers tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure.”

“They can pay.”

“Fine.” Gabriel motioned Mauricio aside and nodded to Indy, inviting him to speak.

“We have no currency, but we do have a bottle of quinine. We hear that it’s difficult to obtain outside of the major cities.”

Gabriel shrugged. “At times.”

“We want to trade it for our passage.”

“’We’?”

“My associate and I…” Indy pointed to Spalko, who looked a bit surly. She spoke very poor Spanish, and the negotiation had thus fallen to Indy.

“One bottle of quinine isn’t enough. Do you have anything else?”

“A knife—” Indy retrieved the blade from his backpack and handed it to Mauricio. The older man held it up to the light, pursing his lips.

“Fine. We leave at sunrise tomorrow. In the meantime, you can stay in my lean-to.”

They shook on it, and then Mauricio led them to a door at the back of the shack. A tiny room was tacked onto the back of the house, half-occupied by a rusty outboard motor and a folded drying rack. In the corner were a homemade mattress and an unlit kerosene lantern.

“Sleep here. If you are not ready at dawn, I will leave without you.”

* * *

 

The night was quiet, save the buzz of insects and the low hiss of the kerosene lamp. Resting on the rough mattress, Indy watched shadows flicker against the ceiling. It was barely past sundown, but he was exhausted and hungry, having decided to save their rations for the next day. Beside him, Spalko rifled through the backpack and retrieved the bottle of quinine. With a scowl, she placed it next to the door.

“You shouldn’t have offered him the knife. It was too much.”

Without turning his head, Indy responded, “He wouldn’t have gone for the quinine alone. We didn’t have a choice.”

She sniffed, and Indy heard her returning footsteps. Lifting the lantern, she turned the dial until the flame was extinguished, shrouding the room in darkness.

“Should we take watches?” In the dimness, he could barely make out her silhouette standing above him.

“I don’t think it’s necessary.”

She assented. “Move over.”

Indy felt her settle beside him, her shoulder barely touching his. There was a click as she set the safety on her handgun and sat it aside, then she spoke.

“Good night, Jones.”

“Good night,” he responded automatically. And yet, he realized, staring into the darkness, something had changed over the past weeks. He had come to like Spalko, if not trust her. She was tenacious, straightforward, and reliable in a fight. As far as trust went, he knew she wouldn’t kill him in his sleep, but he also knew that her first allegiance was to the Soviet Union. Once they reached Lima, they would again be on opposite sides of a massive, interminable war. A war that made less and less sense to Indy the more he pondered. He’d always been interested in the scientific aspects of anthropology; he had never sought an answer to why humans continued to kill each other in vague ideological conflicts.

Indy had, of course, served in the last war, and he had the scars and medals to prove it. While he had worked for military intelligence in Germany, Spalko had been a sniper in the Red Army. He wondered idly if they’d ever crossed paths, back when they were, at least theoretically, on the same side. He hadn’t met many Russians during his service, but the Red Army had had a ferocious reputation. Working undercover in Germany, he’d certainly seen his share of horrors, but it was nothing compared to the battles that raged on the Eastern Front. At least that war had made sense; now, he simply wished the world could quiet down.

Beside him, Spalko was very still, eyes turned to the ceiling. Quietly, she asked, “How long do you estimate our journey to Goyllarisquizga will be?”

He was surprised by the question. “Three days, perhaps. Why?”

There was a pause, and then she spoke carefully, “My commanding officer will want to know why I failed. I should rehearse my explanation.”

She sounded uneasy, but it was too dark to make out her expression. She turned away abruptly, and Indy followed, reaching for her shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

She brushed him away, but not before he noticed that she was shaking. “The Science and Technology Directorate has exacting standards.”

“Why go back if you expect trouble?”

“Loyalty,” she said stiffly.

Indy didn’t know how to respond. He said simply, “You should get some rest. You’ll have plenty of time to sort out your story tomorrow.”

“I suppose so.” She turned back, and her face was momentarily illuminated by the faint light leaking through the door. Perhaps it was the darkness, or her uneasy expression, or his exhausted state, but something made him reach for her hand. She said nothing when he laced his fingers through hers, only squeezed his hand until it began to go numb. They rested like that for a long moment, and then she slid closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“This is strange,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

“Let us never speak of it again.”

He nodded in agreement, and she closed her eyes, still leaning on his shoulder. Exhaustion dragged down his eyelids, and he drifted off, ignoring the buzz of mosquitos and the prickle of straw against his back. The last thing he heard before oblivion was Spalko addressing him quietly.

“ _Thank you_.”

* * *

 

Jones awoke to distant shouts and the roar of rain against the roof. It was nearly sunrise, and Spalko was already up, fiddling with the dial of the lamp. She managed to ignite it, just as a heavy knock shook the door.

Gabriel burst into the tiny room, clothes dripping with rainwater. His shoulders were covered in an oilcloth rain poncho, and he had a net folded under his arm.

“I will pray for the weather to clear,” he said with a scowl. “In the meantime, we should depart.”

Spalko nodded and stood up, tossing Indy his leather jacket. Although he’d promised not to speak of it, Indy remembered the events of the night before with dismay. Yes, he felt something for Spalko, but those feelings were best put aside. Marion was barely cold in the ground, and here he was embracing the woman who was, in some way, responsible for her accident. A surge of guilt welled in his chest, and he scowled, silently pulling on his coat.

Gabriel gave them an impatient look, and Indy slung his pack over his shoulder and headed for the door. Spalko snatched up the pistol and followed, pausing to extinguish the lamp. As soon as they stepped out of the shack, Indy was hit with a wall of rain. Beyond the shoreline, the river was running high, and Gabriel’s boat bobbed against its anchor, buffeted by waves. It was hardly more than a canoe, with a motor welded haphazardly to one side and an awning covering the interior. Gabriel gathered up his net and tossed it inside the boat, then added a cache of food, two jugs of water, and the knife he’d traded for their passage. Finally, he gestured for them to board.

Indy stepped unsteadily off the dock, grateful for the shelter provided by the tarp. The space was small and damp, and he picked his way to the bench at the back. Spalko followed, wringing the water from her hair. They watched as Gabriel cast off and started the motor, squinting in the rain. He quickly navigated to the center of the river, where the boat rocked unsteadily. Indy gripped the side of the bench as Gabriel cursed aloud.

Indy didn’t mind the tension as it helped to distract from his thoughts. Staring out into the roiling gray of the Ucayali River, he let the storm distract him from the guilty weight in his chest.

 


	9. Cast No Shadow

              It was their second day on the river, and rain still tapped steadily against the awning. Leaning against the side of the boat, Spalko listened to the slosh of waves and the steady hum of the outboard motor. Gabriel did not believe in stopping at night, and he lit a few lanterns at sunset, relying on his memory to avoid clusters of rocks and sandbars. She hadn’t slept since leaving Nauta, and she was dizzy with exhaustion, her limbs sore from confinement in the in the tiny interior. It was barely dawn, and Gabriel estimated that they were only a few hours from Goyllarisquizga. He had advised them that the town was little more than an outpost, and that there would be no place for them to stay. Instead, he suggested that they get a head start on the journey to Lima, as the terrain was rocky and difficult to navigate. Spalko hoped that the walk would take no more than a week. Still, both of them were still nursing minor injuries, and ten miles a day was optimistic when traveling in the mountains.

               Jones occupied the opposite side of the boat, trailing an absent hand through the water. He’d been quiet and lethargic since their departure, and Spalko chose to give him space. He’d been happy enough to sleep beside her, to offer a comforting hand when she’d worried about her report; his terse demeanor mystified her. Still, she had more important matters to consider. She hadn’t yet resolved what she would say to explain her failure at Akator, and time was running out. She knew she had failed, and she was prepared to accept the punishment for not achieving her objective. And yet, she was uneasy. She’d heard stories of other Soviet agents who ended up in a Gulag after failing a mission; others were simply put in front of a firing squad. The Soviet Union was her raison d’etre, and the thought of not living up to expectations sent a stabbing pain through her gut. She wanted to avoid the Gulag, but more than anything, she wanted to avoid disappointing the KGB.

                Pulling a hand roughly over her eyes, she straightened up. The wounds on her legs were healing nicely, but her back was still crisscrossed with angry red burns. She had lanced the worst of the blisters and packed on gauze, but her back still stung when she moved. Her nails were beginning to grow back, and her gloves protected the nailbeds from irritation. Still, she worried constantly about infection; the jungle was not a sterile environment, and even the water carried pathogens.

                Noticing her movement, Jones glanced across the boat. “Ever been to Goyllarisquizga?”

                She hadn’t. “No. I have not been to the Andes at all.”

                He laughed shortly, and his tone was tired. “Get ready for the most impassible terrain in the world.”

                “Worse than anything in America?” She hadn’t seen much of the country when she’d visited New Mexico to retrieve the coffin, but she’d glimpsed endless desert and freezing, jagged mountains. She’d been born in the Crimean Mountains of Eastern Ukraine, but the inclines had been gentler, and there was always the glittering sea below. The American Rockies were something much more formidable.

                “Perhaps.” He shrugged, crossing his arms loosely. “The cloud forests can get chilly, too. We will be glad to have jackets.”

                Spalko nodded in response. Concerns about the terrain joined the swirl of her thoughts, and she felt a brief spark of panic. She needed something material to occupy her, and so she retrieved their pack and took inventory of the contents. Ten ration bars, the gun, a tarp, a box of matches, a length of rope, and a roll of bandages. The routine of sorting and repacking their supplies soothed her nerves, and when she stowed the pack securely under the bench, she felt better. Taking a deep breath, she returned to her seat and looked out at the churning waves.

* * *

 

                Up in the cloud forest, the air was thinner, and the nights were a bit colder than she’d anticipated. They’d been walking for three days, and Irina estimated that they’d covered about fifty miles. Near the peak of the last mountain, they’d spotted the crumbling brick edifice of a monastery, about a day’s walk away. They would stop there to gather provisions and ask for directions to the main road that would take them into Lima.

                The rain tapped against her hat, and her clothes were becoming more soaked by the mile. Although her pistol was safely tucked in her boot, Spalko wished that they still had the knife. Beside her, Indy looked worn, exhaustion deepening the lines in his face. He moved more slowly than usual, and she wondered if he was becoming dehydrated. Retrieving the canteen, she signaled for them to stop.

                “Jones, you don’t look well.”

                He shrugged, tilting up his hat with one finger. “Neither do you.”

                She rolled her eyes and sat down on a nearby log, then handed him the canteen. He took a long gulp of water and passed it back to her. The sun was beginning to creep above the treeline, burning off the last of the rain. Spalko turned the canteen over in her hands, trying to ignore his chilly silence. When she again offered him a drink, he shook his head silently. Finally:

                “Why do you not speak?”

                Jones looked at her, startled. “I’m conserving my energy,” he responded flatly.

                She stared for a moment, eyes narrowed. “You are lying.”

                “What, are you going to try to read my mind again?”

                She laughed shortly, but there was no mirth behind it. “That was just an interrogation tactic.”

                “And a pretty poor one.” He paused, and a sour look crossed his face. “You really want me to answer your question?”

                “Yes.”

                “It’s because of Marion.”

                “Explain,” she demanded quietly, a bit unnerved by the rage in his eyes but unwilling to stop pushing.

                “She wouldn’t be dead if you hadn’t forced her to come to this goddamn jungle.” He ground out the words, emphasizing each syllable. Snatching off his fedora, he crumpled it in his fist.

                “And yet, it was the Americans who put her on a bushplane that was not airworthy,” Spalko retorted.

                He sprang up, practically snarling. “You chose to bring her here in the first place!”

                “I was doing my duty. You can certainly empathize.” She followed him, tearing off her gloves so that he could see her half-healed fingers. The motion stung a bit, but she was too angry to care.

                “I did the right thing, Spalko--”

                “—Only after watching your countrymen torture me nearly to death.”

                His face went white, and he turned on his heel, slamming his hat back onto his head. “I should have left you there.”

                She sank back onto the log, too blinded by rage to notice him stalking off into the forest. He’d left the pack behind, and she absently stowed the canteen, then replaced her gloves. She tried to quiet her thoughts and redirect her attention to more important matters, but his words felt like a physical weight on her shoulders. They were nonsense, of course; Jones had helped her escape as a way of wounding Marino. There was no altruism behind it, only practicality. And yet, the nastiness of his words had hurt her. She understood duty, and she suspected he did, too. He had to know that she’d only kidnapped Mary Williams and her son under orders from her commanding officer; she bore them no malice. In return, Jones had helped Marino and Ross interrogate her, and he hadn’t intervened when they broke her nose or kept her sleep-deprived for days. Indeed, he’d only acted when he saw a chance to get even with Ross and Marino.

                Jones had no right to the moral high ground, not after everything he’d been party to. Picking up a twig, she snapped it in two, then tossed the pieces aside. She supposed she should go after Jones, but it sounded unappealing. Instead, she retrieved the gun and unloaded it, determined to put the empty time to use. Disassembling the weapon carefully, she dug a scrap of cloth from the knapsack and began cleaning each piece. Jones would return sooner or later, as they intended to reach the monastery by sundown.

* * *

 

                Indy stalked down the mountainside, equal parts tired and angry. His muscles ached for a rest, but he didn’t stop, letting the momentum of his grief carry him. He’d chosen to forget about Marion for a few weeks, to allow his own survival to take precedence. But despite his best efforts, she’d come rushing back, her memory as heady and furious as her living presence had been. If he forced himself to think logically, he knew he couldn’t blame Spalko for her death. And yet, he couldn’t imagine what Marion would think of his détente with the Soviet agent. Indy had never believed in an afterlife, and he certainly didn’t think that Marion’s spirit still lingered, but moving on felt like abandoning her all over again.

                Reaching a fork in the path, Indy sighed and stopped. The rain had started anew, rustling the canopy of foliage above his head. Despite the heat, he felt suddenly chilly, and he noticed a slight tremor in his hands. Reluctantly, he turned around and started walking towards camp. He hoped that Spalko was still too angry to speak to him; he needed the quiet to sort out his guilty conscience. He wasn’t sure if it was just the physical effect of his grief, but he was feeling weaker and groggier by the minute. He was happy that they were close to the monastery, and he hoped the monks would allow them to stay overnight.

                Reaching the camp, he found Spalko still sitting in the shade, stripping and cleaning their handgun. Her face had settled into its usual unreadable expression, and she held a bit of metal up to the light, scrutinizing a spot of rust.

                “Spalko?” Indy stepped out of the trees, arms crossed over his chest.

                She nodded curtly. “Enough time spent on nonsense. Let’s depart.”

                Indy watched her reassemble the gun with practiced speed. Without another word, she tossed him the canteen and slung the knapsack over her own shoulder. Stowing the canteen, Indy felt a sudden wave of dizziness, strong enough to knock him to his knees. His vision went cloudy, and he cradled his head in his hands, wincing at the tension in his skull.

                “…Give me a minute,” he bit out.

                He heard Spalko crouch beside him, and she prodded his shoulder. “Are you injured?”

                “My muscles ache, and I’m freezing cold.”

                He opened his eyes to see her eyeing him thoughtfully. “Malaria?”

                He winced. It did explain his symptoms, but without medical treatment, he was in trouble. It was a cruel irony that they’d traded the quinine away.

                She pressed a hand to his forehead and scowled. “Without medical care, the infection will kill you.”

                “I appreciate your confidence.” Walking to the monastery felt insurmountable, but it was probably their only option. “Help me up.”

                “Wait, Jones. We should leave the knapsack. I cannot carry both you and our supplies.”

                “Let me have the gun.”

                She handed it to him, and he stowed it in the pocket of his jacket. She took the compass and a handful of bullets, then tossed the bag aside. Finally, she offered him a hand and hauled him up. Standing made Indy dizzy, but Spalko looped his arm over her shoulders, and he felt a bit more steady.  

                He couldn’t bring himself to offer a full apology, but he said, “I suppose I’m glad I didn’t leave you in Iquitos.”

                She snorted dismissively. “I would have escaped, with or without your help.”

* * *

 

                The monks of Monasterio Pablo de Tarso did not often have visitors. Their lives were regimented and ordinary, occupied with prayer, cleaning, and tending their large garden. There were 23 priests in total, and most had spent their entire adult lives in the old brick building. Brother Tiago had come to the monastery at the age of fourteen, and he’d spent twice that long in the service of the Catholic church. He was now in his early forties, with dark hair shaved close to his scalp and almond eyes hooded by prodigious eyebrows. He was a talented metalworker, and he spent his days with a soldering iron and shards of colorful glass, assembling windows.

                Once the sun had started to set, he returned from the outbuilding he used as a workshop. No sooner had he stepped into the vestibule than he heard a weak knock at the door. Smoothing his cassock and running a hand over the crucifix he wore at his throat, Tiago went to the door and threw it open.

                A man and a woman stood before him, half shrouded by the gloom. They were both muddy and damp, with torn clothes and battered, exhausted faces. The man shook like a leaf, and under a deep tan, his face was grayish and pinched.

                Noticing Tiago’s shock, the woman spoke. “We need help. My friend has malaria.”

                She spoke with a strong Slavic accent. Tiago stepped forward. “You are welcome here,” he said automatically, “I will ask Brother Narciso to fetch some quinine.”

                As if summoned by his words, Narciso appeared from the interior of the house, followed by Brothers Guadalupe and Agustin. The three gawked at the visitors, and Narciso asked, “What is this?”

                “I think they are lost, Brother. The man has malaria.”

                “Ah, well, I’ll bring the quinine.”

                He disappeared, and Agustin stepped forward. The youngest of the group, he wore his shiny black hair neatly trimmed, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses sat on his nose. “Do you hear her accent? There is a Soviet presence just south of here. We do not want to be caught between--”

                “—Enough, Brother Agustin. The man is ill, and we are commanded to heal the sick.”

                “But--?”

                “—The discussion is closed.” Short and bullish, with a heavy jaw, Brother Guadalupe generally seized the last word.

                The woman watched them with pale blue eyes, lips pressed into a tight line. “My Spanish is poor,” she said quietly, “but my companion can speak well.”

                “You can stay,” Tiago said decisively. Agustin repeated the pronouncement in rough English.

                The man had collapsed to the ground beside the door, shuddering and sweating profusely. “Let’s get him to a spare room,” Tiago suggested, motioning for Agustin and Guadalupe to help. The woman tried to approach, but he waved her off.

                “You should rest, too. We have a second spare room up the stairs.” He pointed in this direction and mimed going to sleep. She nodded in understanding but looked at her companion uncertainly.

                “There is nothing you can do. Rest, and let us treat him.”

                She nodded stiffly. “ _Gracias_.”


	10. Rough Road

Indy awoke to rough blankets and a painful pounding in his skull. The chills had subsided, but his eyes felt gummy and dry, and his nightshirt was plastered to his back. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, but he vaguely remembered Spalko dragging him through the monastery doors. After that, it was harried voices above his head, someone jabbing a needle into his arm, and nothing. The darkness had been nice, but it now occurred to him that he was on the run. Ross and Marino could’ve tracked them down in the time he was unconscious, and that sobering thought prompted him to drag his eyelids open.

Spalko sat before him, perched stiffly on a wooden stool, squinting down at a notebook. She looked much cleaner than the last time he’d seen her, and her fatigues were faded but freshly washed. Indy watched as she made a mark in the notebook, glaring at the page. If Ross and Marino had found them, he doubted she’d just be sitting there writing. Taking a deep breath, Indy knocked his hand against the bedpost.

 She looked up. “Jones. Should I find Brother Tiago?”

 “No.” His voice was raspy and weak, and she dropped her notebook, giving him a long stare.

 “It has been three days.” Somehow, she knew exactly what information he wanted.

 “Thank you.”

 She shrugged. “The monks insisted on a sedative. They said it would hasten your recovery.”

 “And why haven’t you left?” The effort of talking stung his throat, but he wanted to know. “It’s only fifty miles to Lima.”

 She turned up her palms. “I needed more time to prepare my report.”

 “I’m glad you stayed.”

 “Are you also glad you didn’t leave me in prison?” Her voice had an acidic edge, and he didn’t miss the anger that clouded her gaze.

 “I already said yes,” he responded simply, irritated that she was still stuck on this theme.

There was a sudden tap on the doorframe, and then a monk appeared, short and broad with heavy eyebrows. His expression was serious, but Indy could see the laugh lines that traced his mouth.

“Henry! How are you feeling?”

“Better, thanks.” _Better_ was a bit of a stretch, but he was awake and speaking, and that was a positive sign.

The man approached and laid a finger on Indy’s neck, feeling for a pulse. “Has your fever broken?”

“I believe so.” The monk wore a heavy crucifix, and a tiny silver medallion was tucked under his shirt. He didn’t recognize the man’s garb, but he hazarded a guess that the monks were Franciscan. His assumption was confirmed when he again glimpsed the medal, which was imprinted with an image of St. Francis of Assisi. At the edge of Indy’s vision was a tiny window, and he saw a wide field and a cluster of thatched outbuildings. Tiny figures passed in and out of the largest building, all dressed in the same plain robes as the monk.

Spalko interrupted the short silence. “Brother Tiago, what is your prognosis?”

This was Brother Tiago, then. The man fixed his dark eyes on Spalko, speaking slow and basic Spanish. “He was very ill when you arrived, but your friend should recover in a week or so.”

She nodded shortly. “Good.”

“Now--” Tiago straightened up, smoothing his robes. “Brother Gregorio is heading into Lima for supplies. He will leave tomorrow. You can go along, if you like.”

Spalko paused for a moment, them she shook her head stiffly. “Thank you, Brother, but my friend and I will depart together.”

Indy cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “I think you should go, Spalko.”

She gave him a withering look, and then stood up. “Brother, we need a moment.”

“As you wish.”

He shut the door behind him, and Spalko turned to Indy. “If I leave, you will have to hike to Lima alone.”

“Or I can simply catch a ride the next time Brother Gregorio goes to Lima.”

“Are you not worried about Ross and Marino?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Spalko. If they find us, I won’t be able to slip away again, with or without your help.”

She glowered down at him. “I am a very accurate marksman.”

“That won’t be enough against Ross’ troops. We got lucky last time.” Indy let his head fall back against the pillow, exhausted and sick of arguing.

“Fair enough, Jones. I will go.” Before leaving, she picked up the stool and dragged it to a table across the room. She spoke no more, but from the tight set of her jaw, Indy knew she was angry.

* * *

 

Spalko swept her eyes over the room one last time, and then she stowed the pistol inside her boot. Without their pack, she was forced to store the rest of her supplies in the pockets of her jacket, and she decided to leave the compass behind. The sun was just beginning to leak through the shutters of the window, and her legs still ached from carrying Jones all the way to the monastery a few days before. When she’d arrived, she’d barely been able to climb the steps to the guestroom, and she’d slept for nearly twelve hours. Now, comparably unburdened, she stepped through the door and made her way downstairs.

She had an uneasy feeling about leaving Jones behind, and yet, she saw no alternative. There was a quiet Soviet presence in Lima, and she needed to tell her superiors what had happened. With every day they spent idly at the monastery, Ross and Marino drew ever closer. As uncomfortable as she was with debriefing her commanding officer about her failure, allowing the Americans to recapture her was infinitely worse. Whatever vague emotional ties she’d created with Jones didn’t matter. She needed to fulfill her duty, and that would be impossible from an American prison cell.

Reaching the entrance to the infirmary, she stopped. The room was empty, and Jones was still asleep, face half-lit by the rising sun. He looked better today, and some of the color had returned to his face. Spalko took a slow step, and the creaking of the floorboards startled him awake.

“Are you leaving?”

She nodded, crouching beside him. “I’m taking our supplies.”

“That’s fine.” The light caught in his eyelashes and illuminated the lines and crevasses of his face. He reached for her hand, and she let him thread their fingers together. “Watch your back.”

“I will,” she said flatly, wondering why she was still lingering. His fingertips were rough against her palm, and she felt something she couldn’t identify. It kept her rooted in place, watching how the mosquito net above them cast web-like shadows over the floor.

“Thank you for helping me escape,” she said finally, clumsy and unaccustomed to gratitude.

“Thank you for helping me hit back at Ross.”

Without really considering what she was doing, Spalko raised a hand to his cheek. He met her eyes, and his expression softened. She leaned forward and kissed him briefly, hand still resting on his face. He stared at her, not saying anything. Then, his mouth turned up in a faint smile.

“Goodbye, Spalko. Take care.”

“Goodbye.”

* * *

 

The back of the truck was empty, and blue light filtered through the tarp that served as a roof. A heavy rain was falling outside, blurring Spalko’s view of the steep incline just off the side of the road. Brother Gregorio guided the truck carefully along the mountain road, and the tires crunched and spun against the gravel. The monk had asked a novice to accompany him, and Spalko could hear them conversing in the cab, shouting to be heard above the downpour.

Pulling her knees to her chest, Spalko stared up at the roof, willing herself to focus on the upcoming debriefing. No doubt it would last hours, and her commanding officer would expect her to account for every misstep and stroke of bad luck. She would have to thread the needle of simultaneously taking responsibility and defending her own competence. She knew she should be apprehensive, and yet she found her mind wandering elsewhere.

She didn’t know what had possessed her to kiss Jones. Yes, she felt something for him, and he hadn’t exactly objected. But the action had served no purpose, only satisfied her own futile attraction to her travel companion. Her energy was wasted on him, and they were not likely to cross paths again. And yet, his face wouldn’t leave her head. She found herself wishing he were going on to Lima with her, if only to reassure her that the debriefing wouldn’t be a disaster.

She jumped as Gregorio slapped a hand on the roof of the cab and shouted something in Spanish. The truck ground to a stop, and Spalko smelled exhaust and burning rubber. Uneasily, she crept to the end of the truckbed and dropped to the ground, pulling her pistol out of her jacket pocket. This stretch of road was incredibly remote, and she had a strange feeling about their sudden stop. Moving quietly, she crouched down and clicked off the safety, then aimed her gun at the approaching vehicle.

The truck was unmarked, painted black and crowded with uniformed men. Spalko scanned their jackets for any kind of insignia or identifiable marking, but they wore only solid khaki. Before the vehicle had stopped completely, a shot rang out, shattering the windshield and sending a spray of glass over the road.

“Get down!” She heard a flurry of movement in the cab, and she hoped that the monks had taken cover under the seats. Her shout was followed by another volley of gunfire, and she dropped lower, peeking her head around the side of the truck. The machine guns looked familiar, and she clocked the closest soldier as carrying an AK-47, standard Soviet issue. She had no time to wonder at this before another round of bullets shredded the tarp above her head.

She managed to send a few shots towards the advancing soldiers, digging in her pockets for extra ammunition with her free hand. Something hot and sharp pierced her shoulder, and she felt blood soaking into her shirt. She didn’t stop reloading, even when a second bullet grazed her temple. Just as she raised her arm to fire again, the soldiers surrounded her.

“Drop your weapon,” someone behind her snapped, as a second person tackled her. She felt a knee against her back, and she struggled against the weight, keeping her fingers locked around the gun. She heard the first man scream at her to stay still or be shot dead, and the second bent her wrist backward until she finally let go of the weapon.

Irina felt the cold clasp of handcuffs on her wrists. “Now, come with us.”

She realized with a shock of adrenaline that they were speaking Russian. Immediately, she relaxed and let the soldiers drag her to her feet.

Squinting through the rain of blood from her forehead, she quickly identified the highest-ranking officer, a tall man in a crisp tan jacket. “Comrade, there has been a mistake. I am Colonel-Doctor Irina Spalko of the Science and Technology Directorate--”

“I know who you are, ma’am.” The man brushed sandy brown hair out of his eyes, visibly nervous. “I am just shocked to find you alive.”

“Yes, the Akator mission was a failure, and I ended up in American custody. I need to speak to Colonel Kuznetsov.”

“He is in Lima. We will take you there.”

“Why did you attack my truck, Captain…?”

“…Stasevich. We have received reports of fascist guerrilla activity in this area. The local monks aid and abet these activities.”

He gestured to the truck, where more soldiers were dragging the monks from the cab. The novice looked terrified, while Brother Gregorio pinched his lips into a thin line. The soldiers herded them in front of the hood, shouting in Russian.

“They will be executed.”

“That is not necessary,” Spalko replied firmly. Her shoulder was beginning to ache, and the cuffs were cutting off her circulation. “They assisted me after I escaped American custody.”

“All the more reason to destroy them – they know things.”

Both monks had their hands on their heads now, and Gregorio was muttering to himself in Spanish. Spalko read his lips: _“Dios te salve, Maria…”_

Irina stepped forward until she was nose and nose with Stasevich. Her eyes narrowed. “You will release them – now.”

He shook his head blandly and waved at the men by the truck. They raised their rifles, and Spalko felt something cold wrap its fingers around her heart. She watched Brother Gregorio pull the younger man closer, still murmuring. _“Llena eres de gracia…”_

“—That is an order, Stasevich.”

He clamped a hand on her good shoulder, digging in with a bruising grip. There was a pop as the guard fired, and then Brother Gregorio crumpled to the ground, silent. The body of the novice fell next, and Spalko dropped her eyes, speechless and seething. She hoped that Kuznetsov was prepared to hear her objections, because killing the monks who had sheltered she and Jones was a display of purposeless cruelty.

The air was heavy with the stench of blood and gunpowder, and when Stasevich reached out to uncuff her, she hardly noticed. Her hands moved to her pockets as she followed Stasevich to the Soviet transport, unable to shake the image of Gregorio slumping lifeless to the ground.


End file.
